Then the water sprinklers went off.
It was lunchtime when Rhian got home, clutching her modest bag of groceries. A new edition of the local free paper was jammed in the letter box. The lead story was about vandalism in the Tower Hamlets Cemetery. Frankie was up but still in her dressing gown. She was absorbed in one of her ancient books, a mug of milkless tea cooling beside her.
“You’re wet. Is it raining?” Frankie asked, vaguely.
“No,” Rhian replied, curtly.
“You’ve bought some milk?” Frankie asked. “Wonderful, and some bread, you lifesaver.”
“Sorry I was so long,” Rhian said, flopping down in her chair. “The entire electrical system in Tesco’s went haywire and I had to use a Waitrose. Cost a bit more, I’m afraid.”
“Ah,” Frankie said, in a tone that was a bit too carefully neutral.
Rhian looked at her suspiciously. “You know something?”
“Um, maybe. You didn’t touch one of their computers, did you?” Frankie asked.
“No,” Rhian replied, then thought about it. “Well, only their self-service till.”
“Which is a computer, connected to all their other computers,” Frankie said. “You have been in the Otherworld so will be soaked in magic. It tends to bugger up digital systems. Apparently it’s something to do with quantum mechanics and the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle, whatever that is. Sorry, I should have warned you.”
Now she thought about it, Rhian realised that Frankie did not own a computer, or anything electronic more complicated than a basic phone.
“I work as a barmaid, Frankie. Pubs have electronic tills,” Rhian said.
“The effect will quickly wear off,” Frankie said with a smile. “It’s not as if you are a witch.”
She poured some milk in her tea and took a satisfying sip.
“I’ve been doing a little digging,” Frankie said, gesturing at the book. “This warrior queen you dream about, are you sure she was called Buddug?”
Rhian nodded.
“Do you know who Buddug was?” Frankie asked, mysteriously.
Rhian shook her head. “It sounds a bit like the Welsh word for victory. I suppose you could call her Victoria in English.”
“Possibly,” Frankie said, “but Tacitus called her Boudicca and the Victorian English Boadicea. I think scholars currently call her Boudica.”
“I know about her,” Rhian said excitedly. “She was the Queen of the Iceni who fought the Romans in the days when the Welsh ruled Britain.”
“She did more than fight them,” Frankie said. “She nearly drove them out of Britain altogether. She annihilated the Ninth Legion, the Hispana. Only the general and his cavalry escort survived by legging it. She burnt Colchester, St Albans, and London to the ground, slaughtering eighty thousand Romans and British Quislings. The Roman procurator in London was so shit-scared he did not stop running until he reached France. It was touch and go whether the Romans could hold the province. The Roman general Suetonius Paulinus kept his nerve and blocked the crossroads where the Fosse Way met Watling Street with two legions. He won a famous victory, which is why we are having this conversation in English rather than Welsh.”
Frankie grinned at Rhian, who ignored her. The bloody English only got more arrogant if you encouraged them.
“It has always been a bit of a mystery how Boudica possessed so much influence over the British that she could recruit an army of thirty or forty thousand warriors. The Celts were not exactly hot on feminism. Now we know the answer. If she could turn into a wolf, they would consider her Morgana’s instrument and beloved of the Gods. It would explain why the commander of the Ninth ran away. Roman generals weren’t noted for fleeing, but you can’t fight the Gods.”
Frankie paused to partake of more tea and picked up a book.
“Dio has a description of Boudica, who he describes as more intelligent than is usual with women. Cheeky sod, typical male sexist pig, it’s amazing how nothing changes. I was in the bank last month and . . .”
“Dio?” Rhian asked. Frankie was quite capable of holding forth for some time on the subject of male failings. Her abandonment by her partner, Pete, had cut deep.
“The Roman historian Dio described Boudica as tall, having long red hair, with a piercing gaze and harsh voice.”
“She sounds a charmer,” Rhian said. “Very few modern Welsh are gingas. We are normally brunette.”
“The Iceni were Belgae, or Southern English, as we now call them. Modern Welsh are descended from tribes like the Silures, who were dark-haired even in Roman times. But her hair color doesn’t matter. It’s her clothes that are interesting. Dio said she wore a thick outdoor cloak over a many-colored tunic. The cloak was attached by a Celtic broach dedicated to Morgana and depicting a wolf’s head. Could I see your pendant, Rhian?”
Rhian passed it over.
Frankie held it in one hand and rubbed the other across its surface, tracing out the letters and design. Rhian felt uneasy watching someone else touch Morgana’s brooch, James’ pendant. It seemed wrong somehow.
“I never thought I would hold Boudica’s brooch,” Frankie said, wonder in her voice.
She became more businesslike. “It currently feels magically inert. I thought it would be, or the wards guarding my flat would go off every time you came in.”
“It isn’t always inert. It has burnt people who try to touch it uninvited.”
“People?” Frankie asked. “I can’t be certain without carrying out destructive testing but I think this is a shiffoth.”
Rhian must have looked as blank as she felt because Frankie hurried to explain.
“A shiffoth is a powerful magical device connecting the wearer to the Otherworld for a variety of possible purposes. In this case it attracts a wolf spirit that allows the wearer to become a wolf daemon. The idea is that the spirit flows back to the Otherworld through the shiffoth when the user has finished with it. It’s like a radio, a transmitter and receiver for spiritual energy. The problem is that you triggered it accidentally. You had none of the warding talismans that the original owner would have used. So the wolf did not return to the Otherworld and so is within you all the time. I’m amazed you survived the transformation and that you are not permanently a wolf.”
“The shapeshift was not pleasant,” Rhian said. “It still isn’t.”
Frankie examined the pendant. “I’d guess your Welsh heritage offered some protection. This is a Celtic artifact that would have incorporated Druidic blood magic. Ever wondered why the Romans took so long to invade Britain or why they had such difficulty holding it down when Julius Caesar conquered Gaul so easily?”
“I never gave it much thought,” Rhian replied. A nice lady, Frankie, but inclined to lecture. It was best to let her get to the point in her own way.
“The Druids were taken by surprise in Gaul by the sheer speed and power of the Roman Army. They were destroyed before they could react in France, but they had time to organize a defence in Britain. It is hardly a coincidence that both of Caesar’s invasions in 54 and 55 bc were stopped by storms smashing up his fleets. The Emperor Caligula’s invasion was aborted when he went off his head at Boulogne and ordered his soldiers to collect seashells. Even Claudius’ troops initially mutinied when massed for the invasion. None of this happened by chance but by powerful magics. The Romans hated and feared the Druids for their human sacrifices, and quite right too. Blood magic is always nasty. Some of the things The Commission found buried in Anglesey . . .”
Frankie shook her head like a wet dog shaking water off its fur. The horror in her eyes suggested that she was trying to shake off memories. Rhian knew it wouldn’t work. Memories could not be disposed of so easily.
“The Isle of Anglesey, in Wales?” Rhian asked.
“Yah,” Frankie replied. “Druidism was the only religion, that the Romans utterly destroyed. They were a pragmatic people mostly about their subjects’ religions but Druidic magic was something else. Have you never wondere
d why the Roman Republic collapsed after subjugating Gaul, and all the early rulers of the subsequent Empire went mad?”
“Can’t say I have,” Rhian replied, suppressing a smile.
“Watch I Claudius,” Frankie said. “Anyway, the center of Druidism was at Mona, the Isle of Anglesey.”
“But how does this relate to my pendant?” Rhian asked, wishing Frankie would get to the point.
“I am coming to that.” Frankie said. “The Romans invaded Britain in 43 to destroy the Druids. By ad 60, General Suetonius Paulinus was in a position for the final strike on Mona. The Roman historian Tacitus described the invasion. Listen to this.”
Frankie pushed her glasses back on her nose and began to read out loud.
“On the shore stood the opposing army with its phalanx of armed warriors, while between the ranks dashed women, in black attire like the Furies, with hair disheveled, waving brands. All around, the Druids, lifting up their hands to heaven, and pouring forth dreadful curses, scared our soldiers by the unfamiliar sight, so that, as if their limbs were paralyzed, they stood motionless, and exposed to wounds. Then urged by their general’s appeals and mutual encouragements not to quail before a troop of frenzied women, they bore the standards onwards, striking down all resistance, and wrapped the foe in the flames of his own brands. A force was next set over the conquered, and their groves, devoted to inhuman superstitions, were destroyed. They deemed it indeed a duty to cover their altars with the blood of captives and to consult their deities through human entrails.”
“Yuk!” Rhian said
“Quite,” Frankie replied, primly. “And this is where Boudica comes in. She led the massive revolt against the Romans in 60 ad. It was supposed to be timed to protect Mona by drawing off the Roman Army, but she was too late. Suetonius Paulinus was just too quick. The Druids always underestimated the speed of a Roman advance because they were not used to dealing with professional armies. Mona was destroyed and Boudica’s rebellion doomed to fail, but it was a close-run thing. That brooch of yours was made by the Druids as a weapon for Boudica.”
“This history lesson is all jolly interesting, but how does it help me?” Rhian asked, trying not to be curt with Frankie but getting increasing impatient with her academic flow.
“Don’t you see, Rhian? Now I understand how the brooch was made, I can modify it to ease the transformation process so it is less painful,” Frankie said.
“Oh,” Rhian replied, feeling a little foolish.
“I bet the transformation was much easier in the Otherworld,” Frankie said.
Rhian nodded. “And I got to keep my clothes.”
“Yesss,” Frankie said, pursing her lips as she drew out the word.
Rhian knew Frankie was thinking of Max and felt her cheeks burning, which was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything with him.
Frankie smiled. “That is just a question of including them in the transformation. I can tweak the spell.”
Rhian took a deep breath and when she spoke it took a special effort to keep her voice calm and even. “Is there no way to transfer the wolf back into the pendant permanently?”
“You created a strong bond between the wolf spirit and your soul when you deliberately used the shiffoth to kill,” Frankie said gently.
Guilt washed over Rhian. Not a new feeling, but not one that got any better either.
“I hadn’t used any magic,” Rhian protested. “It just happened when my blood covered the brooch in the moonlight.”
“Yes, the power of human blood. Boudica’s brooch was created by Celtic blood magic, so it was triggered by your blood, as you intended,” Frankie said. “The wolf spirit is locked deep within you. You appear entirely human, but it’s there.”
“So the magic can’t be reversed,” Rhian said, blinking back tears.
“Not easily. I can’t banish the wolf,” Frankie said. “The Commission witches could; in fact The Commission would insist upon it if they discovered you. That’s their job, you see, plugging holes in reality.”
“Then I can escape the wolf?” Rhian asked.
“Oh, yes,” Frankie replied. “But there is a catch.”
“Like what?” Rhian asked.
“The spell will kill you.”
CHAPTER 10
THE HUNTER
It was always different. Sometimes the transition into the Otherworld was so gradual that one was hard pressed to define where the change occurred. Other times it was like stepping through a door from one universe to another. This was one of the latter times.
Jameson walked through a gloomy forest of dead, rotting trees. The stink of decay thickened the air to the point where he could taste the rot. The boggy ground squelched with every step. He held the bulky bolt pistol double-handed, close to his chest. This was the ready stance developed by Churchill’s Special Operations Executive in World War II. He rotated through three-hundred-sixty degrees, gun ready, but nothing moved. Where the hell was Karla?
She tapped him on the shoulder with a clawed hand, laughing at his alarm.
“Don’t do that,” Jameson said. “I could have shot you.”
Karla laughed again, eyes flashing emerald with delight. She was a hunter; she lived for the chase, for the kill. Jameson found himself smiling back. He was a hunter too.
“Where the hell are we?” Jameson asked.
Karla shrugged. “The Otherworld, does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not,” Jameson said.
The trees were splintered as if they had been smashed by giant hammers. The land was a waterlogged swamp. Streamlets overflowed from one pool to another, meandering gently between tussocks of grass. Slimy red-brown algae ringed open water so that ponds lacked defined edges. Thick-stalked plants rose from the water to a height of two or three feet. Leafless, they were topped by bright yellow flowers with overlapping petals, like tulips.
What struck Jameson was the stillness of the air and the silence. Londoners were enclosed by the constant bubble of the city. The buzz of cars, planes, trains, and the sound of seven million people living their lives. Here there was nothing, no movement, no sound, not even a whine of insects.
A ripple in the pond crashed over the silence like breaking surf. Jameson whirled, extending his pistol. A green, flat snout parted the algae in a nearby pool, and an oversized frog climbed out. It squatted in the slime, observing Jameson stolidly. Orange warts decorating its olive-green skin lent a surreal effect. Jameson kept his pistol leveled but the frog made no move, hostile or otherwise.
“I guess that isn’t our quarry?” Jameson asked, rhetorically. Karla did not bother to answer.
The swamp came slowly to life as if the frog had broken a spell. A cacophony of rustles, clicks, and chirrups started, like an orchestra tuning up before a performance. Jameson’s attention was drawn to grass moving in rhythmic patterns about twenty meters away. A reptilian head on a long neck as thick as Jameson’s forearm lifted into view. It was eyeless but a thin tongue flickered from a slit mouth tasting the air. The yellow head waved from side to side like a radar scanner before centering on Jameson. It dropped down into the grass and was hidden from sight.
The waving grass pattern headed for him, resolving when closer into a yellow snake body pushing against grass tussocks to glide through the mud. A black saw-tooth pattern ran down the spine like the markings on a British adder.
Karla watched the snake intently. It ignored her, its tiny snake mind focused entirely on Jameson. Perhaps she did not register as food so was no more important to the snake than a dead tree trunk.
She moved to intercept and the snake stopped, its head flicking towards her uncertainly. Karla froze, still as a granite boulder. Jameson flicked the safety catch of his gun with a click and deliberately stamped his foot. The snake refocused its attention on him.
Karla moved so fast she was a blur. The snake swung back towards her, opening its mouth wide. Hinged fangs swung out but it was too slow, way, way, too slow. She grasped its neck with both hands
, talons digging in, so it couldn’t get its head around to bite her. It spat something into the air and Jameson jumped back. Grass blackened where the venom splashed.
Karla twisted her hands in opposite directions, trying to wring the snake’s neck. Its muscles knotted and its eyes bulged, but the neck wouldn’t break. Her hands slipped, talons tearing through scales and flesh. The snake thrashed against her legs with its coils, and she lost her footing on the mud. She fell backwards, hitting the soggy ground with a slap of displaced fluid.
She kept a tight grip on the animal, struggling to keep its head pointed away from her face as it thrashed and twisted. Jameson couldn’t get a clear shot, so he jumped in close and smacked the snake with the heavy pistol. The blow slapped its head away. Karla took the opportunity to sink her fangs deep into its neck. Its spinal column snapped with a crack and the snake whipped in death agony. Karla threw it into a pond, where it coiled and writhed aimlessly, churning the water into brown-green foam.
Jameson held out his hand to help her up.
“I hate the taste of snake,” she said.
“If you think I’m kissing you before you clean your teeth after that . . .” Jameson said.
“Ohhh,” Karla said, pouting. She walked right up to him until her breasts touched his chest and tilted her head up.
Oh, sod it, Jameson thought, kissing her anyway.
“You’d get mud all over your clothes if we do that,” Jameson said, pushing her away.
“I’ve already got mud on them,” she said.
He was tempted, oh, so tempted, but they were hunting a monster in an Otherworld swamp, for freaking sake. Just because she got off on danger. Actually, so did he, but a healthy dose of terror-induced rationality overcame his hormones. Karla didn’t do terror or rationality. She did what she desired, living for the moment. That was her nature.
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