Mort waved his hand again, and a chair appeared for Morrigan to sit on. It would not do to have her flouncing her assets about while having a serious discussion, derailing his train of thought, which she seemed intent on doing.
"I know about the challenge," he said evenly. She sat and crossed her legs, her red dress riding up on her thigh like silk drape. Not the effect I was after, he thought, but pressed on anyway. "The challenge was to move a stone circle from the old land to the new. It was not to move the most famous of archeological sites—"
"Stonehenge is but a rest stop in the realm of spirits—"
"Not in the human's world, it isn't!" Mort screamed. He did not regret raising his voice. His guest recoiled noticeably. "This was a covert operation you wanted in on, Morrigan! That means keeping it secret, keeping a low profile, away from the prying eyes of humans and their law enforcement!"
Morrigan sighed, and crossed her legs the other way. The effect . . . well, Mort had to transfer some of his newly aroused lust to other places in his appearance. The two horn buds which were more or less a permanent feature on his forehead lengthened somewhat. "And then there is that little matter of your betrayal of the Foevorians to the Tuatha. You were on our side, we had thought."
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "History, Mort. And ancient history, at that. Let me also remind you that I didn't betray you to Zeldan. When I found you in bed with the Unseleighe, I played along, just to see what might come of it. Did you really think I didn't recognize you as a displaced Foevorian?"
This took Mort by surprise, since until now he had thought his disguise had been perfect. Still, she may be bluffing.
"I would say that would make us even," Morrigan continued. "And tell me, what is more important to you: the past, or our glorious future together? I can teach you many things about the humans, I know their weaknesses better than you do."
"You know nothing of the humans, Morrigan," Mort replied hotly.
"I know more than you think," Morrigan hissed back. "While you were Dreaming lo those many centuries, I have studied the humans and interacted with them. You could not have possibly known that it was I who helped the druid Merlin move the stones there in the first place!"
Mort didn't know who Merlin was. It was one of the pitfalls of Dreaming. One couldn't keep abreast of current events.
Morrigan continued, "Remember, I am a god, you miserable fool. They worship me."
Her thighs kept shifting; her ankle, sheathed in an elegant red stiletto pump, rocked up and down restlessly. Mort's horns grew more, their sharpened, curved tips almost touching. Hate it when this happens. He surreptitiously turned his horns upwards, to allow them room to grow, a certainty if this conversation continued along this vein.
"While you, Mort," she continued, "are the remnants of a race conquered an eternity ago by the Tuatha. If it weren't for Zeldan you'd still be in a coma. And yet you had the audacity to deny me my rightful place at your side?"
There it was. She's shaming me into accepting her, in the most humiliating way possible . . . bad publicity! This was no accident.
"You are denied no more," Mort said, his anger surrendering to a resigned calm. She's won this round. Time to move on to the next. "Now, this is what I have in mind . . ."
* * *
Alfred Mackie reached over and answered the telephone on the night table beside his bed, resisting an urge to rip the cord out of the wall.
"Yes?" he answered tentatively.
"It's William, Doctor," said the youth on the other end. "You're not going to believe this, but . . . Stonehenge has disappeared."
"Do tell," Alfred replied with a distinct lack of concern.
"It's gone, I tell you," William bemoaned, and the doctor of prehistoric archeology slowly sat up in his hotel bed. A hell of a thing to be told in the middle of the night if he were alert and sober, and Alfred Mackie was neither.
"I . . . see. Who is with you?"
"Just the others. We came from the pub. . . ."
Alfred might have dismissed this as a prank. Perhaps the other students had convinced William, who was barely old enough to shave, that mystic forces or UFOs or a squad of Yiddish grandmothers had spirited away the stone circle. Easy enough to consider, as Alfred had seen the four of them in the pub, and Alfred had had the impression this was William's first drinking experience.
"Can I speak with, let's see, Stuart?" Alfred asked. Stuart was not immediately available. William was on his cell phone, and the others were out inspecting the site, which had mysteriously turned into a circular asphalt parking lot. "Perhaps I should come on down," Alfred said, though his first impulse was to go back to sleep. There had been a wedding party on his floor and sleep had come only very late. And the beginnings of a hangover did not encourage him either.
"Please do," William said. "And could you bring the camera? I think we should record this, don't you?"
"Of course." Alfred sat up and put his feet on a cold, linoleum floor. "I'll be down soon. Stay there."
Alfred hung the phone up and took a deep breath. The wall thumped, twice, three times, from his neighbor, the newlyweds. Bloody hell.
After a quick shower he threw on an old cardigan, picking up a digital videocam on his way down. Stokes College spared little for accommodations in the field, but they had managed to purchase good equipment for the VR project, he had to give them that. His old Mercedes gave him hell when he tried to start it up, but finally it turned over. When he turned north, on Castle Road, on his way out of Salisbury he saw a hint of dawn on the horizon.
There were many reasons why he shouldn't believe William, and disregard the whole incident as a joke. That's what most professors, supervising fieldwork for his archeology students, would do. The night belonged to youth, and Alfred was nearing sixty.
But there were many more, potent reasons why he should believe him. Alfred had always known when someone was telling the truth . . . at least the boy believed the stones had vanished. Also, while laying awake and staring at the ceiling, Alfred had felt the universe ripping. He had observed this disturbance only a few times before, and though he had not actually seen them, the sidhe undeniably had been involved.
Last month the college had acquired several donated file servers, and Alfred had suggested a virtual reality walkthrough of Stonehenge. In an effort to compete with the other archeology schools the administration had approved a tidy sum for additional hardware and studentships. No one had yet done a thorough, scientific VR of Stonehenge, and Stokes wanted to be the first. Finding archeology students with computer expertise was surprisingly easy.
Alfred turned left onto the A303, passing a sign for Stonehenge. The English countryside appeared to be asleep, and the traffic was light. He passed the junction of A360 and A303. By now dawn had cast a pallid glow on the landscape, enough to see that something important was missing from the horizon.
"Dear gods," Alfred muttered to himself. "Someone has mislaid the Henge."
A lone car was parked at the entrance, and three figures were milling about the site, one waving at him. A black circle had replaced the sarsens and bluestones, and what appeared to be the wreck of an automobile, or part of one, lay at the circle's edge. A single light pole stood off-center on the circle, unlit. But there had never been lights installed here; there was no electricity. He pulled up beside the Golf GTI, noted that one of his students, Stuart, had passed out in the back seat.
William came running up to the Mercedes.
"Did you bring the camera?"
Alfred nodded, and numbly handed the boy the videocam.
"Come on, let me show you," William said, bubbling with energy. Alfred let him lead, riding the trails of his excitement like a hitchhiker, drifting past the fence surrounding the site. Another student joined them, reeking of ale, but was otherwise coherent.
"We are in the right place, aren't we?" Peter, the project's junior technician, asked in all sincerity.
Alfred stared at him for a long moment, taking in
his look of utter bewilderment, and in a flash found it all quite funny. Alfred started to laugh.
Peter scowled. "It's not?"
Alfred grew serious. "It is. What possessed you boys to come out here in the middle of the night, anyway?"
"The ale," William provided.
"We w-wanted to see how the sun aligned with the heelstone," Peter quickly amended.
"It was the ale," William insisted, and giggled. Peter gave him a harsh look.
"Of course," Alfred said. "Well then. Let's have a look."
Alfred took one look at the site and saw that not all of Stonehenge was missing. The barrows surrounding the stone circle and the enormous heelstone appeared to be untouched. Only the enormous sarsens and the bluestones, the inner circle, were gone.
"What's Lars doing?" Alfred said, noticing the other student kneeling next to the remains of the automobile in the distance.
"He's found part of a car," William said.
They came to the edge of the asphalt circle, which was, or had been, a parking lot of some kind. Right away Alfred noticed the spaces were a bit larger than those provided in most English parking lots, and were configured strangely. He examined the asphalt's edge and noted a smooth surface running deep into the turf. Joining the asphalt was the native chalky soil.
"Incredible," Alfred finally said. "There must be— Check the area for tire tracks. Something must have moved the bloody things!"
"We've already looked," Peter said. "There are none. And nothing short of an armada of Sikorskys would have lifted them out of here, and even then I don't think they could. Then there's this pavement. It's old and worn. If it were transported here intact, there would be cracks, but there are none! It's like it's been here for the last thirty years."
Alfred sent Peter and William off to start taping the site, reminding them to take in the barrows, ditches and heelstone for reference, then caught up with Lars at the wreck.
"What have we here?" Alfred said as he approached the car.
"Be careful. There's petrol all over the place."
The wreck appeared to be a small Subaru, sliced in half as if from a giant guillotine, its cut edge aligned with the end of the asphalt.
"The license plate says Oklahoma," Peter said. "That's in the United States."
"Indeed it is," Alfred said. Looking into the back seat, he found a few books on law, all American, a Playboy magazine, a spiral notebook. And an address book.
"This belongs to a man by the name of Rick Ordover," Alfred said, examining the front page. "Maybe we should give him a call. Would you kindly retrieve the cell phone from William?"
Peter fetched the cell phone, and Alfred deftly punched in the number, completing the call with assistance from an operator.
A strange sounding ring, then a muffled voice.
"Hello?"
"Good day," Alfred said. "Could I please speak with Rick Ordover?"
"Speaking."
"Mr. Ordover, my name is Dr. Alfred Mackie, with the College of Stokes in Wiltshire. That's Great Britain. Say, are you by any chance missing half of a Subaru Justy?"
There was a long pause before Rick finally replied, "Yes, I am. Where did . . . what did . . . Are you near Salisbury?"
"As a matter of fact, I am."
Another long pause. "You're looking for Stonehenge, aren't you?"
"Indeed we are. Do you know where it might be?"
"I know exactly where it is. At the corner of 41st and Yale. In Tulsa, Oklahoma."
"In a parking lot?"
"In a parking lot."
"Good heavens," Alfred exclaimed. "You don't know why it might happen to be there?"
"I haven't a clue. It happened during a lightning storm."
Alfred stared at the cell phone, at the asphalt circle, the severed car. What had happened during a lighting storm?
"I may be coming to the United States. Could I call on you?"
"Yeah, sure," said the American, slightly perplexed. "Say, are there law books in the back seat?"
"There are. Would you like me to bring them?"
"Yeah. They're not cheap. I'm a law student."
"I understand."
Once the surreal conversation was over, Alfred debated over who to call next. The boys were still milling about, now somewhat aimlessly, as if the strangeness of the situation was starting to numb them. If he called the authorities, or anyone else for that matter, they would surely not believe him. He took a brief excursion over the circular barrows, the oldest parts of the site, and found them as undisturbed as before, as were the fifty-six Aubrey holes along the inner perimeter, and the two small inner mounds. The heelstone and the "slaughter stone" were as they were before. He proceeded to a medium-sized burial mound to the southeast, explored the shallow ditch around it, finding nothing amiss. Everything about the site was absolutely normal—except for the missing trilithons.
He stood for a time at the burial mound, a smooth dome covered with a thin layer of grass. This was not a dark place, reeking of death and petrified bones, but a fount of information, the sum far greater than the individual souls composing it. His ancestors, some druids, some chiefs, some common folk, were laid to rest here for the purpose it was serving now: as a link to the otherworld. Here was the network of magical sites, the holy wells, the sacred trees, the multitude of other stone circles, all connected by hidden, prehistoric roads that had not quite been erased from the Earth. Some called them ley lines, but to Alfred and the Order, they were a communications network to the great spirits.
He reached along this network and in a flash saw what had happened to Stonehenge.
This is not the work of the sidhe, but the work of the gods.
The mound told him more: the moving of Stonehenge was not an anomaly, even in this modern world, but part of a larger plan started long ago. Before the Celts, before the Romans, even before the first mammoth-hunting humans wandered this portion of Europe. Alfred felt his insignificance stronger now than ever.
An eagle circled the sky, an unusual sight for the Salisbury plain. It kited momentarily, then swooped down for a gentle landing on the mound's peak. The bird regarded him in an unnerving way, as if Alfred were to soon become his meal; but Alfred knew this was no eagle, or any physical creature, of this realm.
I am Lugh, said the eagle, and a golden aura blazed to life around it, emphasizing the fact. There are too few of your kind left, druid. I thank you for attending.
In the presence of the god of light, Alfred thought he should feel more awed than he did. Lugh had appeared to the Order in many forms, including the eagle, but this is the first time Alfred had encountered him alone.
The Foevors are intent on setting fire to the realms, Lugh said, shifting from one talon to the next, a decidedly eagle-like motion. The Foevor Morca is their leader.
Alfred replied, I thought the Tuatha De Danaan defeated them aeons ago. Do they even exist? He found himself easing into the mental dialog with little effort.
They exist. They are intent on conquering the underworld, and this realm. It has always been their desire. To rule, without question, without responsibility. Their arrogance was the weakness the Tuatha exploited before. Now, when most of the gods are sleeping, their arrogance has become one of their strengths.
Alfred hazarded a glance behind him. William was taping the site again, and the other two were going back to the car, perhaps to check on Stuart. They didn't appear to notice the eagle perched on the burial mound.
Their numbers are growing. And they have the advantage. The sleeping gods would never see them for what they are.
Alfred considered a more immediate issue. Why did they take the stones?
Lugh pondered this a moment. It was part of a challenge. An alliance has been forged. By taking the stones they have disrupted the energies here, making many things difficult. They have the advantage now, but I seek to change that.
Alfred asked, It goes beyond the stones?
Far beyond the stones. My son is in
danger. You know my son, druid. You are part of his past, you are part of him. You helped make him what he is, you are what he is. He needs your help. I need your assistance, Cathad.
At the mention of his druid name, Alfred sensed a shift in the realms. A door opened, and he looked into a long forgotten room.
My son, The Hound, is an incarnated human. Go to the stones, and you will find him. Aid him. Fulfill your duties as a druid. Help him remember who he is.
Lugh uttered this last request with disturbing intensity.
Go to the continent in the west, and aid my son, Cu Chulainn.
Lugh leaped gracefully into the air, circled once, and flew to the north. In moments he was a tiny spot in the sky, then nothing at all. Alfred watched the bird vanish into the morning sky, and with its passing came a surge of strength not felt since youth.
It's good to be back in the game again.
Chapter Three
It just figures that the night something interesting happens, I have to close the store, Dobie thought as he poured water on the grill, let it boil, then scraped the scorched hamburger from its dulled steel surface. The radio next to the register blared the news of the mysterious appearance of "megaliths in Tulsa," and it sounded like everyone in the world was there to see it. Everyone, of course, except himself, who was stuck here closing the Mega Burger for the thousandth time.
At least I'm not straining the grease tonight.
The Mega Burger was one of the oldest fast-food joints in Tulsa, so dated it didn't even have a drive-thru window. It was one of those ancient derelicts with cluttered windows and tacky white and blue tile, with all of the hassle of a '50s style drive-in and none of the charm. But the Mega Burger was a minute's walk from his front door, which made up for quite a bit. Since graduating from high school two months earlier, he didn't feel compelled to go to college, which he couldn't afford anyway. He didn't feel like doing much of anything different; he had some money and a place to live, and right now that was all he really wanted. With his seven-finger deformity he should probably stay put, his thinking went. Until he was eighteen, anyway. He might not be able to find a job anywhere else.
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