Lynne Connolly

by The Chemistry Of Evil (Triskelion) (lit)

  The Summoning

  CHEMISTRY OF EVIL

  By

  Lynne Connolly

  Triskelion Publishing

  www.triskelionpublishing.com

  Published by Triskelion Publishing www.triskelionpublishing.com

  15508 W. Bell Rd. #101, PMB #502, Surprise, AZ 85374 U.S.A.

  First e-published by Triskelion Publishing

  First e-publishing January 2005

  ISBN 1-932866-75-2

  Copyright © Lynne Connolly 2004

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by Triskelion Publishing

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places,

  and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To the Duchess, an aristocrat born in the wrong century, not to mention the wrong continent, and definitely on the wrong coast!

  To Susan, with love and laughter.

  Chapter One

  He couldn’t escape. He’d been bound too tightly for that. Three of them left alive, bound and imprisoned. One by his own will. But he wasn’t that one.

  He needed a body. Any body would do, but he preferred one with strength and beauty. His mother had taught him well. As soon as he was called, he knew what to do – take the male body nearest to him. Once out and free, he could choose, make his selection. But no one ever called him, no one ever came.

  He’d been here, wherever that was, for more years than he could count. Centuries earthbound in this dark, unfeeling without sound, smell or sight. He could feel nothing. He could taste nothing. Left with only his mind active, he was supposed to consider his sins and repent.

  He had never repented. Fury filled him, red and dangerous. How dare they do this to him? It wasn’t for him to repent; it was those who’d opposed him. If he’d won the Last Battle, he could have continued his father’s work, made England powerful and rich. The time had been right, and Arthur was old and dying. His mother was ready to help him, her immense power at his disposal.

  He’d had centuries to think and plan. He wouldn’t make the same mistake next time. If there was a next time.

  Mordred let out a howl of rage, a howl heard by no one but him, echoing in his mind. Someone had to find it. The only way he could be called back was if someone used The Pipe, and for all he knew that had been destroyed. He would have destroyed it, had it been him.

  If he ever returned to the land of man, his revenge would be terrible. There was someone, somewhere, responsible for his anguish, someone who would pay. He would find them. He would make them pay.

  Patience, my son. He’d heard that voice in his head for so long, he was no longer sure if it was a memory or real. It didn’t matter. All he needed was one more chance.

  A chance to put things right. A chance to destroy, and then he could re-create the world as it should be, as he and his mother had planned it.

  One chance.

  Chapter Two

  Dreams of violent, terrifying deaths in the past faded in the present peace of the English countryside. Even in Tintagel, a place that had seen murder and terror, it felt tranquil. The bloody history was long gone; a pile of moss encrusted stones remaining as a mute reminder. On the other side of the world was the violence, at least for Sofie. But for now, she was here, and the only turmoil was in her own mind.

  Sofie pushed a curl out of her eyes and bent down to sift through the soil. Careful, meticulous work. From the day her mother had discovered her digging up the roots of her favorite rose bush, Sofie had been obsessed with what lay beneath the earth. Very few things were as thrilling as touching an artifact that had last been touched hundreds or thousands of years before. The familiar excitement gripped her, tightening her stomach muscles when her trowel scraped against something hard. She eased her trowel carefully around the object, clearing away the dirt, then reached for her brush to dust off the rest.

  “Anybody got the camera?”

  She felt warm breath on her shoulder as Gwyneth leaned over to hand her the camera and peer at the object. “What have you found?”

  “Don’t know yet. A metal object.”

  “Ooh.” Gwyneth bent around, subjecting the object to close scrutiny. “Metal should have perished in this damp earth after all this time.”

  “I know.” All the time Sofie worked, clearing as much of the dirt from around the metal edges as she could, her heart racing as it always did at any new discovery.

  Archie’s voice, sounding faintly amused came from behind them. “You know it’s too near the surface to be anything significant.”

  Sofie grinned, not bothering to turn around. Archie, her colleague before he became something more. The familiar pang of guilt shot through her, but she tamped it down, determined not to spoil this moment. “It’s close to the surface.”

  Sofie looked up. Seagulls wheeled in the blue sky above Archie’s fair head. She heard the ever-present crash of waves against the cliffs. “You never lose the thrill, do you?”

  Archie’s mouth turned up in an amiable half smile. “If I did, I’d give up.”

  Sofie uncovered the object. Her heart sank. It was too perfect to belong to the dig. Bright metal gleamed here and there where the dry earth fell away. It was intact, a long metal tube of some silvery metal. Standing back, she allowed Gwyneth to take the pictures of the object in situ, then bent and picked it up. “A whistle.”

  “Yes.” Archie took the object from her and shook it, dislodging a few more grains of earth. “Looks like an ARP whistle from the last war. I’ll take it to the tent and get it cleaned up.” She didn’t miss his smirk.

  “Thanks.” Disappointed, Sofie went back to her task. Archie always had to be right. It was one of the reasons she was no longer sure she wanted him. She’d come back home to be married to him, had volunteered to help finish the dig because she couldn’t resist, but it had only emphasized the differences that had grown between them.

  Five years ago, they had been a perfect fit, but Sofie had moved on and now they didn’t fit any more. The job in Virginia at Quantico had led to a temporary assignment in New York, advising on a murder case. She’d moved from archaeology to forensic archaeology, and found a new life for herself, a life she loved. Archie still wanted her, still said he loved her, but Sofie knew she’d fallen out of love somewhere along the way. She would have to tell him. Soon, before they left Tintagel to go to her mother’s home, and their wedding.

  She found nothing else that afternoon. The small pit she was excavating was an exploratory one, and apart from the inevitable shards of pottery, she found little. The sun had just touched the horizon when Gwyneth came over once more. Her tight braids flew out when she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, relaxing the muscles tensed by a hard day’s digging.

  Sofie stood up and went through similar motions, shrugging her shoulders, flexing her arms and stamping her feet. She tucked her trowel and brush into the little pouch at her waist and climbed out of the pit.

  It was easy to forget what a spectacular view this site had when you spent all day with your nose to the earth. Now, with the sun casting a red glow over the sea, it was hard to ignore. Everything was imbued with a rosy light, tinged with fire. Sofie pushed back a curl that had come loose from her ponytail, the red highlights gleaming in the dark strands when the sun hit it. Her father had always jokingly called her a redhead, claiming her fiery temperament came directly from it. Although it was five years since his death, Sofie still missed him.

  She stretched her back and headed for the tent where the day’s finds were laid out. The
re was a kettle there too, heated over a camping stove. The lure of tea was almost more important than the view. Almost.

  “Find the Grail?” she asked Gwyneth, flashing a grin.

  “Not today.” It was an old joke, masking a secret desire. Here, on the top level of Tintagel, one almost believed in Arthur and all the other old tales. The modern world seemed to recede, only the occasional plane flying high overhead reminding them of their time and place. “You?”

  “Nothing like it. Just a few old shards.”

  “Not as glamorous as New York, then. You’ll be back there soon enough.”

  With Archie. He’d taken a job at the Met, a lucrative position with a research fellowship attached. He always had to go one better than her.

  Sofie would miss England. The soft grass, masking hard, unforgiving rock, the levels and layers, the knowledge that wherever one was in this little island, someone had gone before, perhaps dropped something, a coin, a jewel, a Holy Grail.

  “I don’t think Archie would appreciate finding the Grail here,” she commented. She began to stroll with Gwyneth towards the tent. “It wouldn’t fit in with his theory. He’d be more excited if we found a hermit’s cave.”

  “Some people came up today asking about Arthur. When we told them we were excavating the medieval monastery they didn’t believe us. So Archie told them the castle was twelfth century.”

  Sofie laughed. “How did they take that?”

  “They said we were mad, that everyone knew it was Arthur’s castle.”

  Their laughter rang over the small area of the dig. Several heads poked up to look at them, their owner’s bodies lost in the trenches of the main dig. People seemed to come awake, their concentration broken, murmuring to each other as they began to climb out of their self-dug holes. Moles facing the light, or perhaps bodies rising from the grave. Appropriate, since part of the dig was a burial ground. But Sofie doubted monks would wear a motley array of shorts, Tshirts and tattered jeans, or be discussing the character of the skeletons in such a pragmatic way.

  Sofie smiled to herself when she recalled her New York wardrobe, with its sharp designer suits and elegant, understated evening wear. But she still kept her old clothes. You never knew when an interesting opportunity to grub about in the ground might occur. Or perhaps it was a disinclination to let go of her old life, and embrace the new. Her new job was extremely lucrative and prestigious, but it wasn’t as much fun. Forensic archaeology meant dealing with the recently dead, people with families who mourned for them.

  The tent was a large one, which was just as well. Six people crowded in, to add to the four already in residence. A laptop was carefully set up at the end, away from the dirt. It formed their communication with the study center set up at the hotel in the village, and a link to all the research documents, geophysics and the rest. Long trestle tables were set up, holding trays containing the days finds. Geophysics equipment stood propped up in the corner, expensive equipment that had to be hauled up and down each day.

  Sofie moved to the part of the tent that contained ‘her’ section, the section furthest from the opening, near to George, currently seated in front of the laptop swearing at it.

  Sofie’s finds tray was woefully small, and there was only one, instead of the three or more on the other tables. Uninformative pottery that merely served to confirm what they had already discovered, plus her one find, now cleaned and gleaming balefully at her, reminding her of her failure.

  It was foolish to think like that. She had succeeded in proving the lack of settlement in that area, something Archie had been hoping for. His theory put the site further to the east, but it had been necessary to sink a small pit to prove it. Had Sofie found anything interesting, it might have delayed Archie’s departure for New York and his new job at the Metropolitan Museum. And their marriage.

  So why did she feel depressed? Why had she tried so hard to find something? She knew. Perhaps she would tell him tonight, and then leave for her mother’s house. The dig was almost finished.

  An arm curled round her shoulders. “Well, Sofie-love,” a voice, soft as a whisper breathed hotly in her ear, “New York here we come.”

  She forced a bright smile and turned around. “Yes, here we come. Back to the FBI for me.”

  He frowned. “You could always join me at the Museum. I’m sure I could find something for you.”

  A curl of anger crawled through Sofie’s mind at his patronizing attitude. “I don’t want you to. The FBI approached me. I want to stay, if they’ll have me, perhaps even join full-time.”

  “I don’t like you working with those – bodies.”

  Sofie laughed. “I’ve been working with bodies all my adult life, Archie-love. Just that these are more recent, that’s all.”

  “And have living relatives.” His other arm went around her waist, imprisoning her. “It’s only that I worry about you.”

  Sofie suspected it might be more. Archie was the primary male, the supervisor of this group, built like a golden bear, all bulging muscle and gleaming teeth. Gorgeous, clever, he wasn’t used to a slip of a girl besting him, but she’d done it, getting better marks than he had, and getting her doctorate a year earlier than he did. His overwhelming niceness saved him from the accusation of alpha-ism. Sofie’s doubts had crystallized into certainty in the last few days. Where once she had loved him, the gentle liking that remained, together with a response to Archie’s undoubted sex appeal was no longer enough for her.

  When she’d needed him, when her father died, he’d been there. She owed him for that, but not the rest of her life.

  She smiled and reached up to kiss him gently on the cheek. “I’m starving.”

  “Shall we go to the pub? I shall miss their lasagna when we go.”

  “It’s only because they serve it in large roasting tins.”

  Sofie began to pull away but Archie was having none of it. He dragged her back and angled his mouth over hers, settling in for a nice, leisurely kiss. The whistles and catcalls from the interested bystanders only served to encourage him. When he finally pulled away she was numb with the pressure from his arms and mouth. He waited for her reaction and gave her a cocky grin when she smiled at him. “I can’t wait.”

  He released her. Sofie took a deep breath, trying not to show her anger at his enforced male superiority. Tonight. She would tell him tonight, as soon as she had a private moment with him.

  The whistle gleamed evilly in the find tray, reminding her of her failure. Archie saw where her gaze went, and picked it up, tossing it high into the air and catching it without looking at it. “Someone’s tried his or her hand at engraving this,” he said. “I had a look earlier. But it’s not old, and the lines seem amateurish.”

  “How do you know it’s not old?”

  Archie gave her a pitying look. “Really, Sofie! If it’s silver, it would have tarnished and rotted. If it’s steel, then by definition it’s modern. Good steel didn’t occur on a regular basis before the nineteenth century. Take it as a souvenir.”

  Sofie felt hurt by his light response, as though he was denigrating her efforts that day. She was as well qualified as he was, but Archie could still make her feel as though her achievements were nothing. He did it to most people, and she suspected he wasn’t even aware of it. Defiantly she picked up the whistle, and rubbed it against her T-shirt to polish it up. “I’ll use it when I need help,” she suggested. “It might come in handy in New York.”

  “Down those mean streets?” Archie laughed, just as a new voice, dark as night and twice as sinful sounded from the open flap of the tent.

  “I believe that quotation was meant for Los Angeles.”

  The occupants of the tent fell silent, their end-of-the-day chatter silenced. Before them stood the embodiment of – something. Handsome, as dark as Archie was fair, tall and whipcord lean.

  Sofie lifted her gaze and met his dark stare. Now she knew. This was her fate.

  Chapter Three

  The stranger stoo
d just inside the opening of the tent. His dark hair stirred in the breeze, the only movement about him. His jeans and T-shirt were unmarked, his hand, where it rested on his hip, showed no dark lines under the pristine, manicured nails, where the earth had worked its way in.

  Not an archaeologist, then. Sofie watched Archie scrub his nails religiously every night, but there always seemed to be a residue of earth left. It wasn’t his fault. It was years of working on digs. Perhaps in New York the lines would finally leave his hands, but she wouldn’t be there to see it.

  Archie broke the silence. “Who are you? How did you get past security?”

  The stranger’s smile widened, tilted up more on the left side than the right. “The man down the hill? I showed him my Access All Areas pass.”

  American. Something tightened around Sofie’s throat, reminding her of the life she wanted to get back to.

  “Show me.”

  At Archie’s commanding gesture the stranger dug into his jeans and drew out a black leather wallet. He flipped it open with a practiced gesture. Archie leaned forward to look.

  “Evan Howell. You’re from the CIA?”

  “Yes.” Howell’s gaze moved around the tent then looked at her directly for the first time. His eyes were dark. They might be brown, or blue, or even green, but with his back to the setting sun they were just – dark. She knew him, but paradoxically she had never met him before. She was searching for a connection and was disappointed when he looked away. “I’m here to see someone. Privately.”

  “Who?” Archie’s voice held an edge.

  Sofie exchanged a speaking glance with Gwyneth. It was like stags rutting for supremacy over a herd, except she wasn’t sure the American would accept the challenge.

  The interest quickened around her as the stranger straightened and took a step into the tent. Acceptance, then.

  George broke the tension. Oblivious to the scene before them, intent on his laptop he swore, loudly and volubly. Then he shot a glance at them. “Sorry. Can’t get this damned thing to work.”