by J. C. Hanna
“Gentlemen,” she began. “This would be an excellent time for you to withdraw for some sustenance. I have given you much to ponder, and I expect reasoned responses from each of you.”
The men stood up. They bowed ostentatiously; and then in unison, they said, “Majesty.”
The Privy men left the room with dignified haste. Dee sat down next to the queen. He was slightly agitated—a disposition that she had never witnessed in John Dee.
“Bess,” he began. “Nicholas Heath plans to kill you.”
She smiled, sympathetically.
“John, Nicholas Heath, and a thousand others of like mind, plan to kill me. The spectre of assassination comes with the crown. This is not news to you. We have been planning for it. You have been defending me against such harm for a long age.”
“You don’t understand. When I say that Nicholas Heath plans to kill you, I am not talking about some distant plot. He means to kill you himself. By his own hand. This very night.”
“I will not ask how you have happened upon this information, John. I will take it as truth. I will make certain that all of the proper precautions are in place before Heath meets with me.”
Dee grew even more agitated.
“No Bess, that will not be enough. He will not bring a blade or poison to carry out the deed. Heath is the weapon! The man that we knew as Nicholas Heath, is dead. A demon now takes his place. The demon cannot be stopped by the weapons of your guards.”
Elizabeth stood up. She remained poised.
“John, you must find a way to stop him. If I refuse to see the Archbishop, be he a demon or a man, it will be viewed as a slight to the Catholic faith. It could ignite the very civil war that we so hope to avoid. A single demon with murderous intent is one thing; a rebellious army marching on London is a much more worrying prospect. He will be here in a few hours. You must find a way to stop him, but you must not kill him. When my power is set, then I shall deal with him in a proper manner.”
Dee stood up. He wanted to protest, to urge proper caution until she viewed the threat as seriously as he did; but he knew her political reasoning to be sound. He bowed slightly, before rushing towards the door.
“John,” called the queen.
Dee spun around sharply to face her.
“What manner of demon is it?” she asked.
He paused.
“Blood demon,” Dee said. “Or something similar.”
The queen fashioned a nervous smile. Unconsciously she raised a hand and gently rubbed at her neck.
“If only there were more time, John. I could send to London for a suit of armour,” she said.
She shot him a twinkling smile. Dee returned a smirk, but he was less than impressed with her attempt at levity. He left the queen to her thoughts.
Chapter Seven: Eternal Flame
Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD
The king gazed out into the darkness towards the strange blue flame dancing in the distance. Minutes crept by slowly until eventually, an agonising hour had passed. Something was wrong. His command had been clear, and yet the flame endured. Finally, his impatience got the better of him. He snorted petulantly and then turned on his heel. He called out for a horse and a guard. Three men responded to their king’s cry. The king and the three men rode out across the valley towards the flickering blue firelight.
The king’s horse was a brute. Tall and thick-set, with hair of such dark brown that it appeared black under most light. The animal strode sure-footed across the valley. The horse had seen much action in battle, and it had never faltered. As the king and his mount approached the fire, the animal stopped abruptly. More than that; the horse actively tried to withdraw from the scene. Hot breath from the animal’s wide nostrils clouded and twirled like smoke in the cold night air. The king dug his heels sharply into the side of his horse. The animal stubbornly refused the king’s urging. He dug his heels in again; much harder than before. The beast issued a despondent snort, but it held its ground. Disgusted and annoyed, the king dismounted. He left the horse standing in shamed agitation as he tackled the last part of the journey on foot. His men jumped from their horses and they immediately followed their king towards the iridescent blue flames.
A small group of unfamiliar men stood close to the fire. The king was relieved to find his wise men in the light of the flames, next to the strangers. They were unharmed. He paused for a few tense moments to wonder at the flickering firelight. Lochra, fearing that the king’s bewilderment might be mistaken for weakness, broke into the moment of inaction.
“Lord, these men have come to celebrate their feast in this holy place. Patrick leads them. A holy man from across the small sea. I have carefully explained to them that such a celebration is not possible.”
Lochra stood to one side to present the leader of the strangers to his king. Patrick, a tall, thin man in his thirties, did not impress the king on initial inspection. His robe was brown and dirty. His beard was too long in the king’s opinion. The outsider gave all the appearances of trouble.
“You are a stranger to this land, and so I will allow you a little leeway,” said the king, with feigned assuredness. “You do not know how we do things, or why you have caused such offence to me and my subjects by lighting this fire. If you put out the flames and be on your way, I will take no action against you.”
Patrick smiled. It was a smile that flitted between sympathy, kindness, and mild menace.
“I am afraid that I must decline your very generous offer, my Lord. It is not my fire to put out,” said Patrick.
“Then whoever lit it... Get them to smother the flames,” ordered the king, as he struggled to stifle his rage.
“You don’t understand, Lord,” said Patrick. “This fire was lit by the God of all things.”
The king snorted dismissively. Patrick turned away from the king. He walked slowly towards to the flames. As the light from the fire illuminated the holy man the king could see that he was holding something with both hands. Patrick held the object towards the fire. The small grass snake in Patrick’s hands began to move. It was a slumbering movement that lacked alarm. Patrick bent down and he gently released the tiny reptile.
“Go in peace, my little friend,” Patrick instructed.
The snake began to slither away from Patrick; stopping once to look back at the holy man, before continuing its journey. The king and his men observed the curious scene in silence.
“Of which god do you speak? Tell me his name and I shall have an offering made to him at sunrise; to pardon the dishonour that the extinguishing of this flame might cause,” said the king.
“There is only one God, Highness,” said Patrick. “And He will put the fire out at a time of His choosing.”
The king, in a rage-filled instant, had enough of the impudent stranger. He turned to his most powerful subject and closest friend.
“Lochra, put the fire out,” demanded the king.
Lochra stepped forward, without hesitation. He raised his hand. A look of bafflement spread across the wise man’s face. The blue flame burned on, untroubled.
“Lochra,” snapped the king.
“I am trying, Sire, but this is a powerful magic,” Lochra protested.
“Then turn your magic on the stranger. Kill him!” demanded the king.
Lochra raised a hand and he gestured towards Patrick with a dismissive flick of his wrist, as if he was trying to swat away a bothersome fly. Nothing happened. The king’s full anger finally erupted.
“Men! Kill the stranger!”
The king’s men stepped forward and they drew their swords. As they approached Patrick he calmly raised his right hand while uttering a hushed prayer. Instantly, and with great speed, Lochra rose high into the air until he was swallowed whole by the darkness of the night sky. Just as quickly, the wise man fell back to earth; head first. There was a sickening crack as the wise man’s neck snapped on impact with the rocky ground. The men at arms froze with fear. They turned slowly tow
ards their king for instruction.
Chapter Eight: Thirty Days Until Amy’s Death
Dark Angel Boutique on 79th Street was the number one destination for anyone with a serious passion for high-end, alternative fashion. The silver lettering on black of the storefront gave the false appearance of a decades-old establishment. Racks and tables stacked high with strikingly dark and unconventional kinds of clothing, covered every inch of floor space. Several glass-fronted displays featured pewter-silver jewellery; skulls, crosses and Wiccan cyphers, all adding to the deceptive sense of age that the shop strained to invoke.
It was the assuredness of the store’s identity, and the unrestrained confidence of its patrons, that first attracted Amy; as a customer, to begin with, and then as an employee. To Amy the store was more than a place of work; it was a way of life. It was her temple.
Amy’s parents forced ambivalence when she told them that she was turning down a college education, and the chance to follow them into the law, to mind a weird shop. They didn’t protest too strongly as they knew that would only serve to harden her position. They thought it just another phase that she would one day outgrow. It wasn’t the end of her academic life as far they were concerned; it was merely a postponement.
Amy loved the store and she loved working there. The only hangnail in the whole blissful experience, in Amy’s opinion, was the small section of the store given over to the grotesquely kitsch—skulls of metal and quartz; “potions” and “spell books”; fantasy art and decorative swords. She couldn’t help treating the customers that lingered a little too long in that section of the shop as lesser beings—anyone cursed with such poor taste did not deserve her respect.
As Amy fussed over a rack of dresses, she glared despairingly at a girl in a black dress with a hood attached who was standing in front of the shelves filled with tat. The girl had loitered in the space for more than five minutes. The girl’s expression constantly shifted from wonder to confusion, and then back to wonder. Amy was content to let her browse in silent shame right up until the point when the girl reached for one of the swords.
“Hey!” Amy called out, with a little more volume and aggression than she had intended.
“Miss,” she added, correcting her initial brashness. “I’ll help you with that.”
Struck by the initial rebuke, the girl looked around at Amy. Amy hurried across to the girl. She took the sword from the girl’s hands. The sturdy hilt and long blade of the weapon held weight, but not as much weight as the sword’s size would have indicated.
“Sorry,” began Amy. “It’s store policy. All weapons are to be handled by staff only. Until paid for.”
The girl ran a careful finger along the dull edge of the sword as Amy presented the weapon for inspection.
“This weapon will slay few foe,” said the girl, in an Irish drawl.
To Amy’s ear the accent sounded fake—like an East Coast starlet struggling to conjure the twang of the Emerald Isle, rather than the tone of a true native of the island.
“We tend to leave the foe slaying to the NYPD,” added Amy, sharply.
The young customer was an obvious devotee of fantasy roleplay, and Amy had no intention indulging her, even if playing along secured a sale.
“I know nothing of the NYPD,” said the girl.
Had the girl not been looking directly at her, Amy would have rolled her eyes—controlling that impulse took a great deal of willpower. Before Amy had a chance to speak, the girl headed towards the door. Suit yourself, thought Amy. The girl opened the door. She turned towards Amy before she left.
“My name is Branna,” said the girl. “I will return for the sword.”
“It will be here,” said Amy, in a lighter tone.
The girl looked Amy up and down for a moment. When the moment went on for a little longer than Amy was comfortable with, she put a stop to it.
“What is it?” Amy demanded.
“From what he said, I imagined that you would have been much taller, and stronger,” said the girl, simply.
“From what who said?” asked Amy, with mild alarm.
Branna ignored her question.
“I just dropped by to see for myself. And to thank you for the boots,” said Branna.
Amy’s eyes dropped to the Branna’s feet as the girl raised the hood of her top, and she moved to leave the store. They were well-worn and caked in mud about the soles, but they were indeed the same kind of boots stolen by the old man at the pond. Was the girl in the park on that weird day? She couldn’t recall the girl at all, and she had a fantastic memory for faces.
As Amy stepped out onto the sidewalk she looked left, then right, then left again. The girl had vanished. With the sword in her hand, and shaking slightly with uncertainty, Amy stepped back into the store. She stood motionless for a few moments. Suddenly she became aware of the weight of the weapon that she was holding—it felt much heavier than before. She took the sword in both hands and lifted it up in front of her face.
“I think that it is about time that someone gave me some answers,” she said, with grim determination. “Amy doesn’t like crazy. And it is about time that you had a proper edge,” she added softly, to the sword, with a smile.
As she turned around her eyes were drawn to a flyer on the back of the door. The simple notice of black print on a yellow background announced an event. The information on the flyer was cagy, by design. But it was clear enough to someone in the know, and Amy was very much in the know. It was a flash-mob gathering. An illegal get-together; hence the lack of detail. Monsters at the Center. As before. Amy smiled. Theme, location, date and time, spelled out precisely in those two enigmatic sentences. All thoughts of the strange girl were pushed from her mind as her focus turned to the event.
Chapter Nine: The King’s Wrath
Tara: Seat of the High Kings of Ireland, 441 AD
Terror and confusion had drained all confidence from the monarch’s face. Ronal, now elevated to wisest of all the wise men, moved to the king’s side.
“My lord, you must finish him,” urged Ronal. “This is the burial place of your holy ancestors—the great kings of Ireland, and their wise men. This place is our power. The stranger can be defeated if we draw on that power. We must act now.”
“Finish him?” mused the king, scathingly. “Did you not witness what he did to our friend?”
Ronal stared in disbelief at his king.
Slowly the king began to regain his composure as the true meaning of Ronal’s words sank in. He looked around to where the fire burned. The king drew inspiration and strength from the holy ground beneath his feet—if Ronal could manage to hold on to confidence and hope, then so could he.
“Kill the heretic, and his followers!” ordered the king.
Patrick did not move. He was within striking distance of the king and Ronal when the command to kill rang out. He took the news of his impending death with extraordinary tranquility.
Ronal moved slowly towards Patrick.
“Wait!” Patrick commanded.
Ronal, alarmed, came to a sudden stop. Patrick reached down and he picked up the small snake from the frost-crisped grass about his feet. He held the reptile up in front of his face, and then he smiled.
“You have a death-wish, my friend,” Patrick said. “No matter how hard I try; you still slither back into danger. I will protect you until I find a safe place for you to dwell.”
Patrick slipped the snake into his cloak. He then stepped forward so that he was standing eyeball to eyeball with Ronal.
“Shall we continue?” Patrick urged, with utter confidence.
The king’s men, still shaken by the unnatural death that they had witnessed, were reluctant to act. Eventually, they began to move forward; cautiously, with their swords drawn and pointing towards Patrick and his followers. As they inched onwards, a thick mist rose-up from the earth. The ground began to shake. Patrick’s followers stepped back. The mist grew so dense that the only thing that the king’s men could
see was the blue flame flickering resolutely through the gloom—less a source of mystical curiosity, and more an intense beacon of impending doom.
Abruptly, the earth fell still and an empty silence filled the moment. The quiet ended as the distant sound of hooves pounding the hard earth began to rise. The king’s spirits rose. Reinforcements had arrived. No one could see the new arrivals as they rode in through the mist, but the voices were familiar enough to the king and his men as they called out sightlessly to them. In an instant, the voices ceased. A firm hush took hold of the scene. The uneasy calm ceased at the swish of a sword. No contact. Then another swish. Then another. Then the sound of agony as one of the king’s men blindly struck a nearby comrade. Before long, sounds of agony surrounded the king as his soldiers hacked at one another. Through it all, Patrick stood perfectly still.
The earth began to shake again. The second movement was much more violent than the first. Large rocks broke free from the mountainside, and with a tremendous speed, they tore through the group, knocking men this way and that, and directing the horses into full flight. The mist in front of the king parted slightly to reveal Patrick and his three followers. They were to a man calm and unmoved as if the carnage was taking place in some far-off land—a story told, rather than a nightmare lived.
“Stop this now and I will listen to your mission. I will give you a fair and honest hearing,” the king pleaded.
Beyond the genuine fear that inspired them, the words were empty, and Patrick was not at all fooled by the forced utterance of desperation. Nevertheless, Patrick lifted his right hand and the ground stopped trembling. The mist, as thick and heavy as any that the valley had ever witnessed, was at once gone; draining back into the ground like water into dry sand.
Chapter Ten: John Dee, Slayer
Hatfield Palace, 17th November 1558
When he arrived back at his chambers, Dee once again turned his attention to the mysterious black glass. He studied the sleek rectangle meticulously, front and back, for almost an hour. The object held answers—Dee was certain of it. The glass remained obstinately silent.