Keep Calm and Battle On, continued

CHAPTER TWELVE

Janice awoke to light streaming through the window. Behind her, Mel was still fast asleep, spooning her. She reached out her hand to brush a strand of dark hair from her lover’s face before turning her head to kiss her gently on the cheek. “I love you,” she whispered.

A piercing blue eye opened. “I love you too,” murmured Mel, tightening her arm around Janice’s middle.

“I thought you were asleep.” Janice playfully tweaked her partner’s nose. “We’ve missed breakfast.”

“Who cares. I'll eat you instead.”

“Mel!”

A couple of hours later, Janice reluctantly extricated herself from Mel’s embrace. “I need to go to the bathroom,” she smiled to her grumbling bedmate. “Plus, much as I'd like to stay in bed with you all day, I need a bath and we gotta get on with the translation.” She grabbed her towel and opened the door, only to come face to face with a landlady with a face like thunder. “Good morning, Mrs Tyler.”

“Well, it's barely morning.” Mrs Tyler sniffed. “I was coming to see if you were alright. You didn't show up for breakfast.”

“No, we didn't. We’re fine, Mrs T. Just tired.” Janice tried, unsuccessfully, to step past the landlady.

Mrs Tyler attempted to crane her head past the archeologist. “Good grief, what's happened here? I hope there haven't been any male visitors here!”

Janice hastily closed the door on the room, which was still strewn with discarded clothes. “Trust me, Mrs T. Not a man in sight.”

Scrubbing herself in the lukewarm bathwater, Janice considered the momentous events of the last 24 hours. A disastrous evening had turned into a sublime night. She’d been unable to admit to anyone, least of all herself, the strength of her feelings for Mel. The idea that these feelings might be reciprocated by the dark beauty had been truly unthinkable, especially in the light of her obvious discomfort at the apparent relationship between Xena and Gabrielle. Janice still felt giddy at the thought of the night before. Mel’s inexperience hadn't been in evidence – both partners had seemed to know instinctively what the other needed, as though they had been together for centuries.

Perhaps they had. Janice pondered the precise nature of her and her new lover's connection with their supposed ancestors. She thought of her own family tree – no Greek heritage that she was aware of, although it was probable that some of the generations may have moved around over the course of a couple of millennia. Janice shook her head. Maybe the scrolls would provide some answers.

Speaking of which… Janice climbed out if the tub and dried herself hurriedly before returning to their room. Mel was still sprawled on the bed, and Janice couldn't keep the smile off her face as she admired her partner’s perfectly formed and very naked body. She shook herself to free her from the distraction. Time to focus.

“Mel. That holy man in the new scroll. Did it mention his name?”

Mel gazed on her newly bathed lover. Perfection. “Um. Sorry, Janice. What did you say?”

“The holy man Gabrielle was going on about. What was his name?”

Mel clambered reluctantly off the bed and stepped across to the desk. “It was a strange name. I haven't come across it before. Wait, let me look at my notes… yes, here it is. Khrafstar.”

Khrafstar. The vaguest hint of a memory stirred within Janice. “That doesn't sound Celtic or Latin to me. Any idea where it's from?” Seeing Mel shaking her head, Janice pressed the point. “Could it be Persian?”

Mel frowned and scrutinised her notes. “I – I couldn't say for certain. But now you mention it, the structure would be consistent with what we know of Persian naming conventions from the period.”

“We need to find out what happened after Gabrielle and this so called holy man were rescued.” Janice was beginning her pacing again. “I think the scrolls are gonna be key to solving this whole damn thing. How soon can you translate the rest of that one you're working on?”

Mel unwrapped the scroll and looked at the remaining text. “There's not too much to go. I can probably get you an overview by this evening. But we may miss the nuances.”

“I know. But let's go with the overview for now.” Janice leaned over to nibble the dark woman’s earlobe, and found herself engulfed in a passionate kiss. “Woah! Distractions!” Hearing Mel’s grumbling, she relented a little. “Tell ya what. Let’s go down for Sunday lunch and keep the old bat happy. Then you can get translating while I tidy up in here. Then if you’re done by this evening… well, we can celebrate together.”

Mel winked at her. “I'll hold you to that promise, Doctor.”

In the end Janice decided to leave Mel to it. It was simply too distracting for them to be in the same room together, and the only hope of any translation being accomplished that afternoon was to separate for a few hours. While Mel studied the scroll, Janice headed out into the warm May sunshine. She felt a pang of guilt at being out in the fresh air while Mel slaved away upstairs. After taking a walk and fiddling with the bike for a while, she decided to assuage her guilt by offering to run some errands for Mrs Tyler.

The landlady was clearly surprised at the offer, but seemed genuinely grateful and asked Janice if she could take some freshly laundered clothes and bedding to an elderly aunt living just outside of town. Janice readily accepted and sensed a slight thaw in relations with the landlady.

Mrs Tyler’s directions hadn't been the greatest, and it had taken Janice some time to find the house. When she finally located it, the old lady had insisted she come in for tea and had kept her there for ages telling stories about her trip to London, decades ago, for Queen Victoria’s jubilee celebrations. Janice had tried to drop the topic of the cult into the conversation to no avail, and when she finally managed to extricate herself from the house it was after 7pm.

On her return to the Black Lion, Janice saw to her surprise that Mel was already ensconced in the empty snug. She walked over and gave her partner a kiss on the cheek. “Hey, honey. How ya doing?”

Mel reached out and grabbed Janice’s hand. She looked troubled. “I don't like to drink alone, Janice. But I had to get out of the room. The scroll…” She ran her free hand through her hair, “The scroll is quite disturbing.”

Janice frowned in concern at her friend’s obvious distress. She gestured towards Mel’s empty glass. “Let me get ya another. Then you can tell me all about it.”

Sipping her second G&T of the evening, Mel thought how best to summarise what she'd learned that afternoon. She knew Janice would be upset at what had happened to her ancestor. More than that, though, she also knew that the archeologist would try to link the events in the scroll with the current situation involving the cult. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Gabrielle was – well – she was violated by an evil entity of some sort.”

Janice couldn't hide the look of puzzlement on her face. “Violated? What? Gabrielle was raped?”

“Sssh,” Mel hissed, even though the bar was deserted. Use of the ‘r’ word had apparently troubled her.

Janice was shaking her head. “I don't understand. What happened? How did this ‘entity’ rape her?”

Mel gulped her G&T. “Gabrielle writes that this so-called holy man – Khrafstar – asked her to accompany him to some sort of religious ceremony in a temple a few miles away. Xena was occupied with her military strategies and so Gabrielle travelled without her.

“When they reached the temple it seems that Gabrielle was somehow tricked into killing one of the worshippers. This killing set off some sort of reaction which allowed the entity – or god, whatever it was – to manifest itself. Gabrielle describes levitating in flames and those flames somehow…” here Mel looked awkward, “Somehow entering or penetrating her. It wasn't a pleasant experience.

“Xena arrived and defeated Khrafstar, who had himself gained some sort of super strength and was calling himself ‘Deliverer’. Unfortunately she didn't arrive in time to prevent the attack on Gabrielle. The scroll ends with the destruction of the temple, leaving only stone monoliths behind.”

Janice removed her hat and sat back in her chair, awash with conflicting emotions. This latest tidbit of disturbing news about her supposed ancestor left her sickened – just how much did poor Gabrielle have to go through? At the same time her practical, hardheaded nature was making its way to the fore. Gabrielle may very well have been in possession of great literary talent, but the Covingtons had spent decades trying to prove the reality of Xena and her importance to the historical record. Wild tales of journeys to the underworld and supernatural rape would place the scrolls firmly in the “fiction” category, regardless of the actual truth. Janice sighed heavily and gulped her beer. Focus, Covington, she told herself. We still have to unravel the truth about this cult. Perhaps the scroll will help us. “Describe the religious ceremony, Mel. What actually happened?”

Mel folded her hands as she thought back to the precise wording of the scroll. “I'm still struggling to translate some of the words. There are unfamiliar terms. But Gabrielle mentions robes, chanting and what she thought was an attempt to harm Khrafstar, but what was it seems merely a ruse to cause her to stab one of the worshippers as she tried to help him.”

A sense of foreboding began to take hold of Janice as the pieces of the jigsaw came together in her mind. “This evil entity, god, demon, whatever.. Was it Dahak?”

Mel pursed her lips. “I'm not sure. The entity is only named once, at the end of the scroll, and the word used was not one I've come across before. But, it's possible that it's Gabrielle’s attempt at an approximation of ‘Dahak’ in Ancient Greek.”

It was all falling into place. “Mel, let’s go back upstairs. There's something we need to look at.”

Mel looked up to see Janice already heading for the staircase. Putting down her drink, she sighed and stood up to follow.

Upstairs in the room, Janice was frantically flicking through the stack of papers on the desk. “The inscription that was on that hideous statue. We must have a copy of it somewhere!”

“Relax, Jan.” Mel put a calming hand on her friend’s forearm. “It’s all here in my notebook.” She turned to a page covered in her neat handwriting and marked with a folded down corner.

“Read it out loud. The bit about the sacrifice, not all the tedious crap at the beginning.”

Mel cleared her throat. “And by the blood sacrifice of an innocent, Lord Dahak’s kingdom will be upon this world.”

Janice drummed her fingers on the desk. “Blood sacrifice of an innocent. Is that definitely what it says?”

Mel looked uncertain. “I – I think so. It’s an unusual sentence construction but I can't see how else it might translate.” She looked across at her friend to see her shake her head and light a cheroot.

Inhaling the sweet, spicy smoke deeply, Janice looked directly at her lover. “How about a ‘a sacrifice of blood innocence’? Might it say something like that?”

Mel paused and looked at her notes again. Yes, the inscription might well say this. But - “I don't understand, Janice. What would that mean?”

Janice looked grim. She reached up to a shelf for the whisky bottle and poured large measures into a couple of mugs. Passing one to Mel, she began to speak quietly. “I remember my father using the term. He'd come across it in one of the disputed contemporary sources which he claimed proved the historical reality of Xena.” She sipped the scotch. “I can't recall offhand which one. It was only a passing reference, I think. Anyway, ‘blood innocence’ is a state of being – it means you've never killed. Some people at the time believed that the quality of blood innocence gave the holder special protection or powers of some sort, especially if that person was in an environment or situation where they might have been expected to kill others.

“You said that Gabrielle was a warrior, but that she only fought defensively and with a staff rather than a blade, so as not to kill her enemies?”

Mel nodded mutely.

“We got it wrong, Mel. This cult isn't into human sacrifice. It’s the loss of innocence – blood innocence – that it needs to power whatever sick crap this Dahak is all about.” Janice took another drag on her cheroot. “And those monoliths Gabby talks about at the end of the scroll? I'll bet you a dime to a dollar they're Stonehenge.” She shook her head. “I don't know what the hell is going on, but everything seems to be linked to our ancestors. We need to find out what happened to Gab after this – whatever it was - then we talk to Bolton.”

Mel stood up and put her arms around the smaller woman. She smiled as she felt Janice relax into her embrace, then she gently stroked her hair. “I'm going to spend the rest of this week translating that second scroll, honey. But tonight, I think you promised me a celebration. And I know you're not the kind to break your promises.” Before Janice could object, she pressed her lips against her lover’s. Janice made an incoherent noise before surrendering to the inevitable. She just managed to stub out her stogie before pulling her partner down onto the bed. Saving the world could wait.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mel was true to her word, and as soon as Janice had set off for the dig the following morning, she returned to their room to devote the rest of the day to translating the second scroll.

It wasn't straightforward. The scroll had suffered minor water damage at some stage, obscuring a few characters. A scan of the text also revealed a number of completely unfamiliar words, most likely attempts to render Celtic terms or phrases into Greek. Mel sighed and shuffled around in her chair in an attempt to make herself comfortable. This was going to be a challenge.

Three and a half hours later, Mel stood up from the desk, suddenly acutely aware of the stiffness in her back and neck. She looked at the clock and started at the time, surprised at how long she’d already been going. Rubbing her neck, she looked down at her notes in dismay. All she’d been able to establish so far was the bare bones of a confusing narrative involving a mob of locals attacking a tavern containing an unusually gluttonous Gabrielle. She shook her head. Deciding it was time for a break, she slipped down the stairs intent on stretching her legs outside and finding something for lunch.

Unfortunately, Mel wasn't stealthy enough to escape Mrs Tyler’s attention. “Miss Pappas! There you are!”

At the sound of the landlady’s voice Mel stiffened and grimaced. Unfortunately she’d been spotted now and it was too late to make a run for it. Taking a deep breath, Mel turned and gave the widest smile she could muster. “Why hello there Mrs Tyler! Is everything alright?”

Momentarily flustered by Mel’s apparently genuine bonhomie, Mrs Tyler paused. “No, no, miss, there's nothing wrong. I just wanted to let you know you've got a letter.”

A letter. Mel frowned, puzzled as to whom it could be from. Outside of Salisbury, only Bolton knew they were staying at the inn. She looked expectantly at Mrs Tyler, who was shuffling through some papers on the table by the door.

“There you go.” The landlady held up a small cream coloured envelope. “Arrived this morning. By hand. Some boy brought it over.”

Mel took the envelope, which was addressed in a clear cursive script to Dr Janice Covington and Miss Melinda Pappas. Ignoring Mrs Tyler, who was making no attempt to hide her curiosity, she turned and took the unopened letter upstairs to read in private, all thoughts of a walk and lunch forgotten.

Safely ensconced in the room, Mel reached for her letter opener to slice open the envelope. On reading its contents she almost dropped the letter in shock.

To Dr Covington and Miss Pappas

You are most cordially invited to join Mr Harold Montague at his home for luncheon tomorrow (Tuesday) at 12.30pm.

Mr Montague hopes very much that you will be able to attend. It would be an honour to host such eminent academics at his humble home.

RSVP.

Enclosed with the invitation was a reply card, with a note to indicate that the messenger boy would collect the response later that afternoon. Mel turned the card over and over in her fingers. She really wanted to discuss the matter with Janice, but the digsite was several miles away and she had no transport of her own. This decision was going to have to be hers alone. Mind made up, Mel reached for a pen, scribbled her response, and sealed the card in an envelope away from Mrs Tyler’s prying eyes.

“We’re doing what?!” Janice slammed her drink down on the table and looked at her partner incredulously.

“Ssh,” Mel hushed, although glancing around it was clear the snug was empty. “This is the best chance we’ve had to find out more about the cult. I would have preferred to discuss it with you first but he wanted an answer this afternoon and I couldn't get a message to you.”

Janice sighed and ran her left hand through her hair. “I don't trust that guy, Mel. He's up to something. And going to his house! Jeez, anything could happen.”

Mel nodded. “I know, Jan. It is a risk, but this has to be our best shot. It's lunch not dinner, in the middle of the day. If we keep our wits about us I'm sure we will be fine. After all,” she reached over the table and covered Janice’s hands with her own, “We’ve been in scarier situations. I'll feel safe with you there.”

This comment made Janice’s heart swell with pride and happiness. Momentarily unable to speak, she looked into the taller woman’s stunning blue eyes and gave a small smile. “Ya always say the exact right thing, sweetheart,” she eventually managed, shaking her head. “Okay, we’ll go. But we’re gonna be real careful.”

There was a noise from behind the bar as Mr Tyler entered with a tray of glasses. Janice hastily withdrew her hand from Mel’s. Time to break the moment and change the subject, Covington, she thought to herself. “So anyway,” she said brightly, taking a swig from her beer, “How’d the translation go today?”

Mel sighed inwardly. She'd been dreading this question. “I’m struggling a bit with this scroll, to be honest. The narrative is…confused. And there are a lot of unfamiliar words…” Her voice trailed off and she examined the pattern in the wood of the table, reluctant to meet her partner’s eyes. She knew Janice would be disturbed and alarmed by Gabrielle’s latest revelation.

“Sure, but ya must have got a few pointers? We don't need a detailed analysis at this stage Mel. Just a clue as to what happened after they left the temple.”

Mel took a drink to steady herself before filling her friend in on Gabrielle’s tale of the apparently motiveless attack on the tavern and the bombshell that followed. “It seems that Gabrielle was… with child.”

Janice looked puzzled. She lit a cheroot while musing on this unexpected development. “Um, but I thought her and Xena were an item by this stage? Who was the father?” She half closed her eyes as the explanation hit her. “Oh no. Dahak?”

Mel raised her eyebrows. “I think it must have been. Gabrielle is quite explicit in the scroll that she hasn't been with a man since her late husband many months earlier. If it was Dahak, though, the pregnancy must have progressed unnaturally fast. She and Xena only left the temple a few days before the incident in the tavern but from the description of her condition she must be in the second trimester.”

A silence fell over the pub table. Janice puffed absent-mindedly on her cheroot. She knew she shouldn't take the ongoing saga of her ancestor’s misfortunes to heart, but it was difficult not to. It was possible, of course, that Gabrielle was exaggerating or dissembling in some way – perhaps she had cheated on Xena with a man some months earlier, or perhaps the events described in the second scroll took place much later than the narrative suggested. In her heart, though, Janice believed that the story could be taken at face value, and that Gabrielle had in fact been impregnated by an evil entity. The implications for the contemporary cult, if it was indeed a revival or continuation of the original, were disturbing.

The more pragmatic part of Janice noted that this was likely to be yet another scroll that would not be taken seriously as a history of the period. She shook her head and forced a smile. “Okay, this all seems pretty serious. And weird. We need to get the rest of the scroll translated pronto. Maybe it will help us figure out what to do next. Wanna work on it tonight? My Ancient Greek’s not what it used to be, but I reckon I can help out.”

Mel shook her head and took Janice’s hands in hers again. “Enough with the scrolls for one night. How about I buy you another drink, then we can head back upstairs and…”

Janice reached over and put a finger gently on her friend’s lips. “Sounds like a plan. But tell ya what. Let's skip the drink and go straight up.”

The next morning Janice headed to the digsite as usual, promising to return before lunch and pick up Mel so that they could travel to Montague’s place together. On the way to the site she stopped to call Bolton.

“Bolton,” a gruff voice grunted after the operator connected the call.

“Hey, morning Mr B. I got some news for ya.”

“Dr Covington! I'm glad you called.” Bolton sounded troubled. “We’ve been doing a bit more digging on Harold Montague. Turns out his BUF affiliation might not be as quite as historical as he claims.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And he took a number of so-called business trips to Germany right up until war broke out last September.” Bolton cleared his throat. “He’s got some quite unsavoury associates. Nothing concrete we can pin on him so far, but... looks like your suspicions were right, Dr Covington.”

Janice allowed herself to feel just a little self-satisfied. “Well, guess where Mel and me are off to for lunch?” She paused for a moment and then, in the absence of an answer, pressed on. “Montague’s house. Sent us a proper invitation, the works. Outta the blue.”

There was a brief moment of silence before Bolton spoke. “Well. That is certainly… unexpected.” His voice took on a note of concern. “Be careful, both of you. Find out what you can, but remember this chap may be dangerous. We’re still not sure what we’re dealing with here.”

“Got it, Mr B. We’ll look after ourselves.”

After an uneventful morning at the dig, Janice excused herself saying she had some errands to run in town and needed to make contact with her research associate. She picked up Mel at the previously arranged meeting point. “Which way?”

“Take the London Road out of town and then there's a left turn signposted to Old Sarum,” Mel recited the directions she’d been given. “Two or three miles I think.”

On arrival at the address, Janice couldn't suppress a gasp. She had been expecting a large property but nothing had prepared her for what she saw. The house was a huge, rambling affair, with formal gardens stretching out for several hundred yards. A couple of peacocks could be seen picking their way through flower beds on the left. Three expensive-looking cars were parked on the driveway.

Even Mel, who had grown up in an antebellum mansion, was taken aback by the sheer size and apparent luxury of the property. “Well. Not bad for a small-town businessman”.

“No kidding.” Janice dismounted to pull the bell chain hanging from the outer gates. She noted with a shudder that the statues adorning the stone gateposts bore a superficial resemblance to the artifact excavated from the digsite.

The gates swung open and an older man dressed in the formal style of an English butler emerged from the house. Janice started the bike up again and headed slowly to meet him. The tyres crunched on the driveway’s gravel, setting both women’s teeth on edge. Pulling up to the front door, Janice acknowledged the ageing retainer. “Afternoon. We’re here to see Mr Montague.”

“Miss Pappas and… Dr Covington. Mr Montague is expecting you.” The butler looked askance at Janice’s outfit. She ignored his glares, well used to it after all these years. He turned to Mel, who was smiling sweetly. “Ladies. Please follow me.”

He led the two friends into the house and through two large reception rooms and several passageways. There were prominent displays of armour and ancient weaponry everywhere. Janice inclined her head at a particularly vicious looking claymore with a serrated blade. “Bet Xena coulda caused some mayhem with that, huh?” she whispered.

Mel sniggered briefly and then stopped when the butler coughed theatrically before fixing her with a baleful glare. “Ladies. Mr Montague is waiting in the orangery.” He opened a door which led into a large, airy room with glass ceilings. A table had been set up towards the far windows. Both women noted the impressive spread of foods on display, from large joints of beef and ham to eggs, fruit and a range of cheeses. Montague sat at the head of the table, rising quickly to his feet as the butler announced his guests.

“Dr Covington! Miss Pappas! Welcome, welcome.” He reached for their hands and kissed them gently. Janice shuddered. It felt like a slug crawling on her hand.

If Montague noticed her reaction, he didn't show it. “Thank you, Piper. That will be all.” The butler stiffened, gave a barely perceptible bow and left the room. Montague stared after him with an indulgent expression on his face. “Dear old Piper. Such a stickler for formality.” He smiled at his guests. “Please, do sit down.” Gesturing at the food, he gave a small shrug. “I do hope a salad with some cold cuts is to your liking. We considered a heartier dish, but it's so very warm this week.”

“It looks splendid, Mr Montague.” Mel nodded her thanks as Montague filled her plate with a selection of the items on offer.

“Fancy,” Janice grunted. “Musta been hard to come by a lotta this stuff, Mr Montague, what with rationing and all.”

Montague didn't rise to the bait. “Only the best for my honoured guests. He reached for a bottle sitting in an ice bucket by the table. “A little wine? Decent stuff, from Burgundy.”

An awkward silence fell over the table. The Americans sipped their wine and picked at the food. Eventually, Montague spoke. “I'm so very glad that you could both make it. It's a great honour to have respected academics such as yourselves come so far to study the town, especially during such troubled times as we find ourselves in.” He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I think I speak for the whole town when I say we want you to feel comfortable here.”

“It's a beautiful town, Mr Montague.” Mel beamed at the businessman. “We’re very fortunate to have had the opportunity to work on this excavation.”

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it.” Montague reached for a boiled egg and began slicing it into paper thin discs. “But when I say we want you to be comfortable… well, a little bird told me that you might have felt alarmed about the activities of the Folklore Society.”

Mel and Janice exchanged looks. Janice chewed her lip, not trusting herself to speak. Luckily, Mel took the lead. “I don't know what your little bird told you, Mr Montague. But in all honesty we have heard some rather strange stories.”

Montague laughed heartily. “I bet that damn churchman’s been filling your heads with nonsense about devil worship! He does this every time we get some new folk in the town.” Pouring himself more wine, he shook his head. “Damn Church always interfering in stuff that's none of their business. If it's not burning witches, then it's killing some other Christians because they sing different hymns, or something.” He spread his meaty hands out on the table. “Look, you probably already know I'm the Chairman of the Society. And I can assure you, there's nothing sinister about it. We’re just a small group of people with a real interest in this town’s history. You're both academics, you know how it is. We carry out research, we meet to discuss it and…” his eyes twinkled, “Just once in a while we have a re-enactment.”

“A re-enactment?” Mel put down her fork and did her best to look puzzled.

“Yes, a re-enactment. You know, staging some of the events we believe took place here in the past. It's just a bit of fun, really.”

Janice breathed deeply. “That's very interesting, sir. But what has it got to do with us?”

Montague turned to face the archeologist. “As I said, Dr Covington, you and Miss Pappas are welcome guests in our town. You may be influential, when you report to your fellows in academe on your time here. We do not want you to leave here with the wrong impression of our Society. And so,” here Montague paused, apparently pleased with himself, “I would like to invite you to attend our re-enactment of a traditional ceremony of pre-Christian worship. It will be held at the stones at 6pm on Saturday.”

After a brief silence Mel spoke up. “That is extremely kind, Mr Montague. We will be delighted to attend. It's very important for we academics to experience real life from time to time. My late father was an anthropologist and I know he would have been fascinated to see ancient traditions such as this being kept alive.”

Montague looked even more pleased with himself. “Marvellous! Now,” he reached over and tugged on a tasselled pulley, which summoned a uniformed maid in what seemed like seconds, “Pudding! Betsy, do bring out the trifle.”

After a further forty minutes of awkward conversation, the Americans managed to extricate themselves, declining a tour of the grounds, pleading pressure of work. Piper the butler escorted them to the bike, and the women rode off in silence. Satisfied they weren't being followed, Janice pulled into a layby about a mile down the road. She killed the engine and climbed off the bike, stretching her back and staring into the middle distance. “Woah. That was… unexpected.”

Mel came up behind her and ran her hand gently down her partner’s back before resting an arm over her shoulders. “It was. But this is our chance to find out what is going on with this… cult, society, sect, whatever it is.”

Janice leaned back and relaxed into her lover’s arms. “Urgh. Yeah. I know. We gotta go through with it. But it's gonna be risky. I don't believe a word of what that guy says. Goddamn black marketeer, Nazi sympathising bastard…” her voice trailed off as she felt Mel stroking her hair. “Mmm. That feels nice.”

They stood quietly in each other's arms for a few minutes. Reluctantly, Janice prised herself out of Mel’s hold. “C’mon… I really do need to get back to the dig. And you need to find out what our ancestors did next.” She stood on tiptoes and planted a soft kiss on her partner’s nose. “I'll drive you back.”

Mel shook her head. “Drop me at the edge of town. I could use a walk and I've got a few errands to run.”

Mel busied herself in town picking up a couple of new notebooks and pencils and buying some stamps at the post office – she had, after all, promised to keep Livingstone updated with her progress in translating the original scrolls. On her way back to the inn she called into a newsagent and exchanged some ration coupons for a bag of boiled sweets she knew Janice was fond of. It was a gorgeous day and she found herself dawdling a little, reluctant to return to the stuffy attic room to pore over ancient writings. Lost in thought, she turned a corner and promptly collided with PC Morgan, dropping her new purchases in the process. She watched in dismay as the boiled sweets scattered across the road.

“Oh no, I'm so sorry.” Morgan bent down and picked up the stationery. The sweets, sadly, were beyond rescue.

“It's my fault, Stephen. Wasn't looking where I was going.” Mel smiled at the policeman and accepted the proffered notebooks and pencils.

“Well, in any case, I'm glad I ran into you. Literally!” Morgan chuckled before adopting a more serious demeanour. “Although to tell you the truth I'm a little surprised to see you. I thought you'd still be with Mr Montague.”

Aha. Mel’s suspicions were confirmed. “So,” she said, her voice taking on an unfamiliar flintiness, “You’re Mr Montague’s ‘little bird’. I did wonder.”

Her reaction seemed to panic Morgan who held up his hands in the universal gesture of truce. “It's nothing sinister, I promise you. I ran into Mr Montague at the cathedral service on Sunday and I mentioned that Dr Covington and I had… got off on the wrong foot the previous evening, and that in the course of a heated discussion she said some silly things about the Society. He said he'd invite you both over to explain the real story.” Morgan shook his head. “People misunderstand what we’re doing and there are so many crazy stories going around that those of us who take an interest tend to keep our involvement quiet. It's easier that way.”

Mel nodded. She decided to go along with the conversation for now. “He filled us in on the background. He explained it was all harmless celebration of ancient traditions. In fact, he's even invited us to a re-enactment of a pre-Christian ceremony.”

Morgan looked pleased as punch at this news. “Well, that's wonderful. Anyway, Melinda, I wanted to ask whether you are alright? I was worried on Saturday when you ran off like that.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I told you, Janice was upset. I had to go to her.”

Morgan seemed aggrieved. He let out a sigh. “You're a good friend to her, Melinda. But I think Dr Covington was being rather selfish, spoiling our evening like that.”

Mel gritted her teeth. This was uncomfortable. There was a tiny part of her that had a soft spot for Morgan, and her gut feeling was that he was ignorant of Montague’s true nature. “Oh Stephen, please don't blame Janice. She’s under a great deal of pressure and she needed me that evening.”

Morgan appeared grudgingly to concede the point. “Fair enough.” His face brightened. “I believe there's another dance on Thursday. A bit more low key this time. Would you accompany me to it?”

“I'm sorry Stephen.” Mel gave him a gentle smile. “I don't think that would be such a good idea. Janice and I –“

“Janice, Janice, Janice. Damnit!” Morgan’s face was growing red. “What’s she got to do with it? She can't stop you stepping out with me.”

Oh boy. This was getting worse by the minute. Mel had no doubts about her feelings for Janice, but expressing this to Morgan was a different matter. She hesitated before speaking. “Stephen… I’m not sure how to explain this. The thing is… well, Janice and I are together, now. We weren't before,” she added hastily, “not when you asked us to the dance. It's – well, it's a new thing for me. For both of us.”

For a brief moment a look of puzzlement crossed Morgan’s face before the penny dropped and confusion was replaced with rage. “That damned pervert,” he said, quietly. “Parading around in men’s clothes. Seducing innocent young women…”

“That's enough.” Mel spoke sharply. “Stephen, I'm sorry if I've hurt or embarrassed you in any way. This is all very new. It's been… a surprise… for both of us. But I won't have you speak about Janice like that.”

“You won't be the first, you know. She’ll have a string of conquests just like you.” Morgan blew through his teeth and made a disgusted sound. “Anyway, I've got to get back to the station. Good day, Miss Pappas.” He walked past Mel and strode off without a backward glance.

Mel returned to the inn, feeling shaken up by her encounter with the policeman. Sitting at the desk in the stuffy room she removed the scroll from its case and tried with limited success to focus her mind on the characters on the vellum. The intensity of Morgan’s reaction and its venom had alarmed her. Perhaps, she mused, his feelings for her were stronger than she had realised.

His words had troubled her. In her youth, Mel had always imagined herself married to a typical Southern gentleman – wealthy, handsome, charming – and if she allowed herself to think about them too much, the developments of the past few months still felt a little unreal. Her feelings for Janice were genuine, she had no doubts about that. However, the relationship was brand new and in the excitement and intensity of it all – not to mention the background of ancient cults, evil deities and Nazi agents – she had given little thought to practical matters.

One such practical matter being how others would view their relationship. Mel realised with sadness that the automatic social acceptance that would come with a husband could never be hers while she was with Janice. She knew this would not bother the archeologist, who was entirely untroubled by convention. But for Mel, it was a different matter.

And what of Morgan’s parting shot about Janice’s past conquests? There could be no doubt, Mel thought sadly, that her partner had much more experience in that department than she did. When they'd discussed it before Janice had mentioned a previous male lover, but the more she thought about it the less likely it seemed that this was the full extent of the story.

Mel felt a sudden rush of conflicting emotions; anger, grief, fear and jealousy – not to mention annoyance with herself for letting Morgan’s unkind words bother her so much. Emotions exhausted, she slumped in her chair and let the tears flow.

She was still sat there two hours later when she heard the latch. Janice sauntered into the room and removed her hat. “Hey sweetheart,” she murmured as she leaned over for a kiss, before noticing to her dismay her partner’s swollen eyes and wet face. “Mel! Honey, what's the matter?”

Janice’s presence alone seemed to cause her doubts and dark thoughts to melt away. Mel stood and pulled the blonde woman into a fierce embrace. She leaned down to kiss the top of Janice’s head, feeling a distant memory stir as she did so. She stood silently for a few moments, holding her friend close to her before trusting herself to speak.

Haltingly, she recounted her meeting with Morgan and repeated what he'd said, before sharing some of her anxieties, feeling increasingly foolish as she did so. “I'm being stupid, aren't I,” she whispered. “I don't know why I'm even telling you this.”

Janice took a deep breath and slowly pulled back from her partner. “You're not being stupid, sweetheart,” she sighed. “Well. You're kinda stupid for even talking to that creep. But, no, it's not stupid to worry about the future. And I'm not gonna lie to ya. Being with me, longer term, is not gonna be as easy and comfortable as being married to a guy.”

The blonde reached for the whisky bottle and poured them both a small measure. She took a gulp before continuing. “If we’re together, we’re gonna get odd looks, mean comments… hell, maybe even violence. It's not something people understand, and when dumb people don't understand something they tend to lash out. But…” She stroked the taller woman’s face, “I'm prepared to deal with that. I love you Mel, and I don't give a damn what other people think. The question is, do you? Cos it’s still early days. If you decided you couldn't deal with the situation… well, I'd be crushed. But I'd understand.” Janice paused and took another gulp of her drink. “As for all that other crap he came out with… Jeez, honey, you know I'm not some sort of defiler of innocent maidens. The truth is… the truth is, I've been with a few guys. And, yeah, a couple of girls. But none of them made me feel even close to the way I feel when I'm with you.”

Janice stopped speaking, feeling exhausted. That was far more emotion than she was used to articulating and she had no idea how it would be taken. When she finally mustered the courage to look at Mel, she saw the pale blue eyes filled with tears. Once again, she found herself enveloped in the Southerner’s tight embrace, and took that to mean that the matter was resolved.

Thank God. Dames are so much more complicated than fellas.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The rest of the week passed quietly, although the news from Europe grew progressively grimmer as the days went on. Sitting in the excavation site office on Friday morning, Janice studied the morning’s paper with growing dismay. France had all but collapsed, British troops had been evacuated from Dunkirk and the German navy appeared to have control of the seas. In fact, Nazi Germany seemed unstoppable. Britain stood alone. Janice sighed to herself, wondering whether she'd attached herself to yet another lost cause. The little Georgetown house and the petty campus intrigues were looking more attractive than ever.

She shook herself and stood up, determined to resist these negative feelings and concentrate on completing the mission. She had already spoken to Bolton, who was delighted at their invite to the cult’s ceremony but had warned them to remain observers only. Observers only, she thought to herself. Easy to say, might be harder in practice, especially if her worst suspicions about the ceremony turned out to be vindicated. Part of her wanted to share these fears with Bolton, but he remained unaware of the surprise discovery of the scrolls, and a larger part of her wanted to keep it that way.

Stepping out of the hut, she saw Daniels trotting up to her with a big grin on his face. As he came closer, he held up a small piece of metal between his thumb and forefinger. “Dr Covington! Look at what we’ve just found!”

Janice peered at the object. It looked to be a belt buckle or brooch of some sort. It was fashioned into a likeness of a horned human head, possibly a representation of the same creature that inspired the statue. She sighed. There was no getting away from this today, clearly. Forcing a smile, she nodded at Daniels. “Great find! You okay to go catalogue it?”

“Absolutely!” Daniels hurried into the hut. Janice looked over at the dig and noticed Holland staring. He quickly dropped his gaze when he noticed her interest. Groaning, Janice wished for the umpteenth time that morning that Mel was with her. She resolved to treat her partner to an night out that evening.

And so it was that the two friends found themselves back on the hill overlooking the town, eating fish and chips out of newspaper and swigging from a bottle of beer.

“It's so lovely up here. It was a great idea to come back. Thanks, Janice!” Mel reached out her hand to stroke her lover’s back.

Janice snorted. “Food outta paper, and a bottle of warm beer on a hillside. Yeah, I really know how to treat a lady.” She took a drink from the bottle and smiled. “Nah, it is nice here. And private. We've got a big day tomorrow, and I didn't feel comfortable talking about it in a pub. Walls have ears, and all that.”

Mel nodded, a serious expression on her face. “I've finished translating the scroll.”

“Oh yeah? That was real quick, Mel. Excellent.” Janice scrunched up her chip wrapper before reaching for a cheroot. Her partner had been quiet on the topic for a few days, and she’d been reluctant to ask too many questions as it was clear that the Southerner was finding the material difficult and at times distressing. “And… what happened?”

“Well. It's all very strange.” Mel stretched out on her blanket before turning to face her friend, propping up her head on one arm. “I don't know what to make of any of it.

“After leaving the port, Xena and Gabrielle journeyed through a forest, where they were waylaid by ghosts or sprites of some description. These things were hostile to Xena but seemed to wish to protect Gabrielle. The two of them took refuge in a fort. The inhabitants of the fort, a group of warriors, argued amongst themselves about their visitors. There were concerns that Gabrielle was carrying a demon child; others would not accept this.

“They barricaded themselves into a part of the fort used for animals. Whilst there, Gabrielle gave birth to a baby daughter, whom she named Hope. Mother and baby were doing well, but Hope grew rapidly, appearing to age months within the space of a few days.

“At some stage one of the warriors died in mysterious circumstances. Xena became convinced Hope was to blame and tried to kill the child. Gabrielle managed to escape the fort and hid the child, sending her down the river in a basket like Moses. She lied to Xena about this, telling her that Hope had turned on her and so she had thrown her from a cliff to her death.”

Janice sat slack jawed in horror for a few moments. The story was more bizarre, and more disturbing, than she had expected. Eventually she pulled herself together to ask the obvious question. “And then what?”

Mel shook her head. “I've no idea. The scroll ends there. They're still in Britannia. Xena seems to believe Gabrielle’s story about killing Hope.”

“Sheesh.” Janice turned her head to spit out some tobacco which had worked its way out of her cheroot. “What an idiot bard girl was sometimes. Makes me embarrassed to be related to her.”

“You embarrassed! Well, what about me?” Mel bristled.

“Huh?”

“Poor Gabrielle was only trying to protect her child! Xena would have killed her. She was only a baby! What kind of monster would do that?”

“Ah, c’mon, Mel. The kid was evil! A demon! You just said she killed that warrior guy.” Janice shook her head. “I mean, talk about naivety…”

“Now just hold on a moment.” Mel had stood up and was beginning to pace up and down. “I never said that Hope killed anyone. A warrior was found dead, it's true, but no one saw the baby harm him. There was a lot of confusion, with quarrelling factions. Anyone could have come in and killed him.”

Janice chewed her lip. “Xena went with her gut. I think we should trust her instincts, and Gab shoulda done as well. I mean, come on! The kid’s father was an evil god, or entity, or something. She was half demon!”

“She was also half human! And we know that Gabrielle was a pure, good soul. Xena, more than anyone, should have known what it was to struggle against a dark side and still end up doing good!” Mel sat back down again. “I don't understand it. I felt Xena in me in the tomb, and she felt warm and kind. I was proud that she was a part if me. And now it turns out she was all set to murder the child of her lover, her best friend, soulmate…”

“Ah, sweetheart.” Janice reached over and pulled her partner into an embrace. “Maybe there’s more to this. Subtleties you'll find when we have a chance to spend more time on this. But it strikes me that both Xena and Gab did what they thought was best. And for the right reasons.”

“Sometimes there are no good choices, only lesser degrees of evil?” Mel said, still muffled in Janice’s embrace. “I think I heard that somewhere.”

“Yeah. I guess I'm saying something like that.” Janice stroked the her lover’s hair. “But the main thing I'm saying is that I think we both need to stop beating ourselves up about stuff that our ancestors did a coupla thousand years ago.”

They stayed wrapped in each other's arms for several minutes. There was a lot more Janice wanted to ask about the scroll, but for now she was content to sit quietly, holding her precious Mel to her. As some other wise woman had once said, tomorrow was, after all, another day.

After a while Mel stirred. “Oh my gosh! The time!”

“Ah, don't worry.” Without letting go of her lover, Janice stretched out on her blanket before pulling the taller woman down towards her. “I thought about what ya were saying the last time we were here. It's a warm evening. How about a night sleeping under the stars?”

“Oh! Are you serious?”

“Oh yeah, babe. I'm more serious than I've been in my life.”

Mel groaned as her partner began to unfasten her blouse while nibbling her ear. Sleep, she suspected, might be a while in coming.

Janice stood in the centre of the room with her hands on her hips. “Okay. What more do we need?”

Mel looked up from her seat by the desk, where she was gazing into a compact mirror and touching up her lipstick. “Why, I don't know, honey. Maybe a large howitzer?” Watching Janice’s scowl, she relented. “Heavens, girl. We’re attending some traditional ceremony and you’ve already packed a revolver and a bullwhip. What more is there?” She smiled as Janice huffed. “Mr Bolton did say that we’re just here to observe, you know.”

“Mr Bolton’s sitting pretty in Oxford. It's easy enough for him to talk, but I'm gonna make sure that we’re prepared for everything. I'm not gonna let any harm come to you, Mel.”

“Why thanks, that's sweet and all… but I need to make sure no harm comes to you, either.” Mel bent down and rummaged under the desk where Janice had stored the canvas bag containing the circular weapon retrieved from Macedonia. “Ah yes. This should do it.” She held the weapon up so that it glinted in the light before looking down at her side in consternation. “Hmm. Need to improvise a hook of some sort.” She removed the belt from her suit skirt and started fiddling with a sewing kit.

Janice frowned. “You sure about this, Mel? That weapon’s lethally sharp.”

“It's called a ‘chakram’. Seems to be a variant of an Indian weapon,” Mel said, unexpectedly. “Only, the Indian version didn't fly back to the thrower. I think Xena’s weapon was one of a kind.”

“You reckon you can use it if you need to?”

“I do. I can't really explain it, but when I hold it in my hand, it just feels completely natural. The important thing is not to try to think about it. Just feel it.”

Janice looked at her partner in surprise. This sort of heart leading the head talk seemed out of character. Still. She'd been pretty effective with it in the tomb, even if Xena was somehow helping her. Perhaps it was best not to try to analyse it too much. She watched as Mel deftly attached a small piece of stiff leather to the side of her belt, forming a passable hook. “Perfect. And with my jacket on, you can't even see it.”

Impressive. Janice gave a low whistle. “Didn't know you were handy with a needle and thread darlin’.”

Mel grinned. “I have many skills.”

Suitably attired, they left the inn in the direction of the bike. On reaching the vehicle Janice paused and turned to her friend. “We still don't know what happened after Gabrielle abandoned the kid. Presumably the Age of Dahak didn't come to pass after all. So, assuming we’re right about the cult, why would they try to repeat it?”

Mel shook her head. “No idea. Maybe there's more to the whole saga. Perhaps Hope did try to bring in this Age of Dahak but Xena and Gabrielle – or someone else - stopped her. Maybe she didn't grow up to be evil after all and Gabrielle’s instincts were right from the start. There's a whole range of possibilities. But unless we find more scrolls…” she shrugged.

“Do you think they know who we are? I mean, who we’re related to?”

“The cult? Hmm.” Mel pondered that possibility. It did seem an extraordinary coincidence that she and Janice appeared to have become embroiled in the same obscure cult that had caused their ancestors so much trouble a couple of millennia ago. But – “How could they, Jan? We only found it out ourselves a couple of months ago, and we had to dig an ancient god out of a tomb to do so!”

“Maybe they had a tip off.” Janice’s eyes narrowed. “I'm still not sure about Bolton. Always thought he knew more than he was letting on. Maybe they got to Kleinman. Could imagine him shooting his mouth off to the wrong person.”

It was, Mel thought, a possibility. Jack Kleinman’s heart was in the right place – of that she had no doubt – but discretion did not seem to be amongst his qualities. The idea that he had blabbed the whole tale to someone with ulterior motives in a bar was entirely credible. However, the chances of that happening and getting back to the cult, British Intelligence and/or German agents in England in time to set the whole saga in motion seemed remote. She shrugged. “I can't see how that could have happened. Maybe it's just one of those things. Fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it.”

Janice blew air from her mouth unhappily. “I don't know, Mel. I gotta bad feeling about all this.” She shook her head. “Ah well. Fortune favours the brave. Let's go.”

Half an hour later they were approaching the stones. Janice turned the bike off the road onto a bridle path and parked up against a tree. She walked back to the road and turned around to observe her hiding place. Satisfied that the bike was not immediately visible to passers by, she nodded to her partner. “Well, here goes nothing.”

Mel trotted up, handbag over her shoulder. She was already starting to regret her choice of footwear, wishing she’d opted for the flat pair. Ah well, too late now.

They covered the short distance to the stones in silence. As the megaliths came into view, a small group of people was visible. They appeared to be wearing robes or cloaks of some description. Janice looked up at the bright sunshine and almost laughed at the incongruity. “Look at these idiots. If they want to wear scary robes they might at least have waited until it got dark.”

“Maybe they thought it would be less intimidating for us this way.” Mel shielded her eyes for a better look. “Can you recognise any of them?”

Janice shook her head. “They all look the same in those stupid outfits. Come on, let's find out what this ‘re-enactment’ is all about.”

“Remember what Mr Bolton said, Janice.”

“Observe. Get as much information as you can. Don't take unnecessary risks. Yeah yeah.”

They approached the group by the stones and one if the robed figures waved. “Montague,” Janice muttered through a grimace.

She studied the group ahead of her. There were around ten of them. As well as Montague, she recognised Morgan and Paul Holland.

“Figures,” murmured Mel when she noticed Holland. The rest of the group looked unfamiliar, although she thought some of them may have been at the dance the previous weekend. She glanced over at Janice. That weekend seemed a lifetime ago, and Janice now felt like the most natural part of her existence. She reached over and threaded her fingers through her friend’s. She felt Janice stiffen, briefly, perhaps in surprise, before she gripped her partner’s hand with some considerable strength. The blonde looked up and smiled. “Whatever happens, we go through it together.”

Further discussion was cut out by the arrival of Montague. “Ladies! I'm so glad you could make it.” He gestured at the stones and the rest of the robed characters. “It’s an honour to have you here for this. A real honour.” He clapped his hands to draw the attention of the others. “Friends! Please welcome our guests.”

There was a brief silence as ten pairs of eyes studied the new arrivals. Janice noted Morgan’s glare and Holland’s refusal to make eye contact. Her thoughts were interrupted as a slim dark haired girl arrived with a pair of robes draped over her arm. Janice looked at her quizzically. Montague cleared his throat. “Nothing to be alarmed about! Just part of the tradition. We’d appreciate it if you could slip these on over your clothes.” He picked up a robe and held it up so that Mel could slip her arms into the sleeves. “Miss Pappas. Please allow me.”

“Nah.” Janice shook her head. “I don't think so, Mr Montague. We’re observers.”

“What Janice means,” Mel moved hurriedly to defuse the situation, “Is that academic observers, such as we are today, need to maintain a professional distance from the ceremony or event they are studying. It's a basic rule of anthropology.” It sounded lame, but it seemed to convince Montague, who simply nodded and made a gesture of dismissal. The girl with the robes scurried away.

“Well,” said Montague. “Shall we begin?”

Somewhat reluctantly, the two Americans followed Montague to the stones, where the participants had spread out to form a horseshoe around the flat altar stone. Montague guided Mel to stand just outside the horseshoe and gestured for Janice to move to the opposite side. Janice hesitated for a moment before complying, figuring that separating in this way might actually be safer, as they would have better visibility of events.

There was a buzz of excitement amongst the robed congregation, which Montague quietly ended by raising his hands. “Friends. It is time. Let us perform the sacred rituals handed down to us through the centuries. Let us honour Dahak, the one true god!”

As the group began a low chanting in an unfamiliar language, Janice locked eyes with her partner and grimaced. There could be no doubt whatsoever about the nature of the cult. She dropped her gaze and began scanning the scene, watching carefully for any sign of a worshipper acting differently or attempting to attack another.

It came more quickly than she thought. As the chanting seemed to reach a crescendo, Holland turned and grabbed the arm of Mel, who was stood immediately behind him. His other hand, Janice noted, held a blade of some sort. Her reaction was instant and instinctive. Grabbing the handle of her bullwhip, she expertly flicked the weapon so that the end coiled around Holland’s wrist. He yelped in pain and dropped the blade. Mel, meanwhile, had recovered from her momentary shock and brought her heel down firmly on the bank clerk’s instep. He yowled and staggered away to the side, hopping and clutching his wrist.

The chanting gradually died down and the cultists stood around looking uncertain. Janice wondered how many of them were aware of the true nature of the ceremony. She doubted that Holland had been briefed that his starring role was intended to end with his death – although, she mused, having him attack Mel rather than a random Dahak worshipper was certainly an improvement on the original set up, and maximised the likelihood that the attacker would end up dead by her hands.

Holland regained his balance and limped away, sobbing. Janice turned to look directly at Montague. “I guess I've learned from my ancestor’s mistakes, Mr M.” She glanced around at the remaining cultists, most of whom appeared jittery and unsure of their next move. “I'd give it up, if I was you. Sorry guys. You're not gonna see any ancient deities manifesting here this evening. Go on. Scram.”

Several members of the group began edging away. Janice glared at Morgan. “Yeah. You too, officer. Just get the hell away.” She smirked at the utter loathing in his eyes before a strangled cry made her spin around.

Montague had retrieved the fallen dagger and was kneeling on a terrified Mel, who was pinned down on the altar stone with the wicked-looking blade pointing under her chin. “You're not nearly as clever as you think you are, Covington. I will finish this ceremony one way or another. Now, play your part or watch your girlfriend bleed out on this altar.”

Time seemed to slow down, but Janice didn't hesitate. She pulled out her revolver and, with a calm that shocked even her, shot Montague once in the chest.

Montague rolled away and fell heavily to the ground. Lying on his back, he gazed up to the sky. “Lord Dahak! I give you your sacrifice!” He began to gasp for breath. “Your kingdom… is at hand… I could still be… the Deliverer…”

“I don't think so.” Janice held out her hand to help Mel up from the stone. “Ya see, we might be related, but we’re quite different, Gabrielle and me.” She shook her head. “I lost my blood innocence a long time ago, Mr Montague.”

There was a pause as this revelation hit Montague, and his face betrayed the gradual realisation that his plan had failed utterly. He gasped for breath again and began to make a gurgling sound.

A stunned Mel found her attention divided between the dying Montague and the remaining cultists, who were now fleeing in all directions. As she stood still, unsure of her next move, out of the corner of her eye she spotted Morgan running towards Janice brandishing a club. Without thinking she unhooked the chakram from her belt and let it fly. The metal disc ricocheted off several megaliths before slicing Morgan’s club – which, Mel noted, was actually his regulation truncheon – cleanly in half and then returning as if by magic to her outstretched hand. She quickly slipped the weapon back in its hiding place.

Morgan came to a halt and looked at his destroyed truncheon in utter bafflement. It was clear he had no idea what had just happened or where the flying disc had appeared from. He hesitated for a moment and then turned and ran towards the road without saying a word.

Silence descended on the stones. Janice turned to her partner and wrapped her arms around the taller woman. Mel reciprocated, hugging the blonde tightly to her body, occasionally loosing her hand to stroke her long hair.

Mel wasn't sure how long they stayed like this, but eventually she reluctantly broke free from their clinch and turned towards the body lying by the altar. “Um, Janice. Montague?”

“Yeah.” Janice pushed the fedora back and walked towards the fallen cultist. She knelt down and placed two fingers to his neck. After a few seconds she looked up and shook her head. “He’s gone.”

“Oh, Janice!” Mel let out a little sob. “He's really dead?”

“Yeah, that's what happens when you take a bullet to the heart.” Janice straightened up. She seemed unperturbed. “He brought it on himself. Woulda killed ya. No way I was gonna let that happen.” Her eye caught the dagger, which had fallen from Montague’s into a patch of weeds. “Wouldya look at that. Reckon that's our missing dagger.” She picked it up and examined it. “Quite something. Obsidian, I'd say.”

“Leave it!” Mel’s voice took on an air of urgency. “And now you've got your fingerprints on it, Jan!” The archaeologist’s apparent nonchalance troubled her. “You killed a man! What are we going to do now?”

Janice casually wiped the handle of the knife on her khakis and dropped it back into the weeds. She rested her arm against Mel’s back and then rubbed it gently. “Don't worry, darlin’. We’re gonna walk back to the bike and find a phone so we can contact Bolton. Hopefully,” here she grimaced to herself, “He’ll have some way to fix this. He's working for the government, after all.”

Arm in arm, they retraced their steps. As they approached the road, they became aware of the noise of a car engine and what sounded like a bell ringing. Janice sighed. “They got here quicker than I thought.” She dropped Mel’s arm. “Stay here.”

“No! I'm going with you!”

“Stay back, Mel. There's no sense in us both getting busted. It's me they want, anyway.” Janice strode towards the road, where two police cars could be seen approaching. She raised her hands in the air as both vehicles came to an abrupt halt and two policeman jumped out of each. “It's okay boys. I'll come quietly.”

She nodded at the officer who was  approaching her gingerly. “The gun’s inside the jacket.” She stood motionless, with her hands still in the air, while the constable reached into her jacket and removed the revolver.

“Janice Covington? You're under arrest,” shouted a second officer. Janice responded by nodding and holding out her wrists to be cuffed. As she was bundled into the back of one of the cars, she saw with relief that another officer was comforting a weeping Mel, who was clearly being treated as a witness rather than a suspect. She closed her eyes and leaned back into the seat. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the first time that Janice Covington had seen the inside of a jail cell. However, the previous occasions had been mercifully short-lived affairs, the result of barroom brawls or shady dealings in antiquities. Depending on the circumstances, payment of a small fine or a bribe to a foreign official was all that was required to be off on her merry way. This was rather more serious. Janice sat on the narrow cot and leaned back against the bare brick wall behind it. For the hundredth time she looked around the bare room, her eyes lighting on the covered bucket in the corner. “Nice place. Ensuite.” She forced a chuckle and gazed up at the ceiling.

The custody sergeant had taken her watch along with her jacket, hat, boots and belt. She had lost track of how long she had been inside the tiny cell, but the more time passed the more anxious she became. Her first action had been to give them Bolton’s name and phone number and she had initially clung to the hope that a call to him would resolve the situation. This was looking increasingly unlikely and she wondered if her suspicions about him were to be proved correct.

She heard footsteps and a key in the lock, before the door opened to reveal one of the policemen who had arrested her. “Come with me.”

Janice’s brief hope that her release might be imminent was dashed when he cuffed her hands and pulled her roughly out of the cell before dragging her down a corridor. “This way.”

“Okay! I can walk myself.” She tried to shrug him off but he gripped her arm tighter. She decided to acquiesce for now and allowed herself to be frogmarched into a small room. A large man with a florid face, who appeared to be in his late 40s, sat in behind a metal table which was screwed to the floor. He looked up as they entered. “Dr Covington. I am Inspector Glenning. Take a seat.” He nodded at the constable who had brought her there, dismissing him.

Janice sat down on the proffered chair. “Did you call Mr Bolton?”

The inspector nodded. “We have. He says he's never heard of you.”

Her stomach lurched. “What? That's not possible Inspector. We’ve…” she corrected herself, not washing to implicate Mel in anything, “I've been working for him, on behalf of the British Government. He commissioned me to do some investigation of this cult. It's…”

Glenning head up his hand. “Enough, Dr Covington. We know what happened. One of our officers was there and saw the whole thing.”

Janice slumped in her seat. “Morgan? Now just wait a minute. He's at the centre of the whole thing…”

Once again Glenning held up his hand. “Be careful, Dr Covington. You're accused of a very serious crime. A capital crime. Making malicious allegations against one of my finest young officers is not going to help you.” He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to Janice. Her shackled wrists made it awkward, but she took it with trembling hands and allowed him to light it before taking a deep drag. “So,” Glenning continued, “Are you going to tell me what really happened?”

Mel sat back in her chair and drummed her fingers against the table in front of her. The clock on the wall showed that she'd already been sat there for well over an hour while a very nervous young constable took her statement. His note taking was so painfully slow that Mel wondered whether he was borderline illiterate. Finally he had finished and left with his sheaf of papers and Mel had breathed a sigh of relief. She looked again at the clock. She assumed that Janice would have told them to call Bolton from the outset, and it troubled her that she was still sitting in an interview room and her friend, presumably, in a cell somewhere.

The officers had been kind to Mel, offering her tea and sympathy which she accepted, and cigarettes which she politely refused. When she'd first been brought in she’d caught sight of Stephen Morgan, now in his uniform. He'd looked embarrassed and ducked his head to avoid her gaze. Mel had shot him a look of pure venom to which he'd seemed oblivious. Since then she’d given the young officer her statement and had several requests to see Janice turned down. Although not under arrest and so presumably free to go, she had agreed to wait in the interview room in case anyone had any further questions. Looking yet again at the clock, she began to regret being so accommodating.

The door opened and a young woman in police uniform entered, holding a mug of steaming hot liquid. “Um, hello,” she said shyly. “Miss Pappas? I'm WPC Carr. But you can call me Betty.” She settled down in a chair and pushed the mug towards the other woman. “I was asked to come and sit with you and make sure you're alright. I brought you some tea.”

Mel smiled weakly and lifted the mug to her lips. “Thank you, Betty.”

“You're welcome.” Betty leaned forward and placed a comforting hand on Mel’s arm. “You must have had a nasty shock. Poor Mr Montague.”

Mel made a non-committal noise. She wondered what narrative was already being taken as objective fact within the station. Betty seemed nice enough, but she sensed that she needed to tread carefully and not inadvertently say something to get Janice into even more trouble than she was already. A change of topic was in order. “So, Betty. I don't think I've met a female police officer before. What does it involve?”

Betty thought for a moment. “Well, it's not all that exciting to be honest. I do quite a lot of typing.” She gestured at the door. “I expect I'll be typing up your statement at  some stage. Make the tea. Be a bit of a shoulder to cry on when ladies or children are upset.” She looked thoughtful. “It's not a bad job. But I thought it might be more interesting, I suppose.”

The conversation seemed to have dried up already. Mel racked her brains for a new subject, but before she found one Betty glanced down at her legs and made a cross noise. “Bother!” She pointed at her knee. “I grazed it earlier, and look, you can really see it. I thought I'd fooled everyone.” Seeing Mel’s puzzlement, she stood up and twirled around. “You see, it's been so hard to get stockings ever since the war started. We stain our legs and draw a line on the backs so that it looks like we’re wearing them. But, I think I've blown my cover this time.” She sighed. “I suppose you don't have to worry about this in America?”

A plan was beginning to formulate itself. Mel pulled a sympathetic face. “No, we don't.” She picked up her handbag and began rummaging in it. Ah, there it was. “I do actually have a spare pair of stockings right here. If you'd like them, you'd be very welcome to them.”

Betty's jaw dropped. She took the offered hosiery, unable to believe her luck. “Miss Pappas! Are you sure? I don't know…”

Mel waved her hand. “Please. Take them. I have several pairs back in my room.”

The policewoman’s face flushed pink with excitement. “Well, thank you! So kind!” She paused. Can I get you anything else Miss Pappas? More tea, or,” she dropped her voice to a more conspiratorial tone, “Something a little stronger?”

“Oh, no, no. Not at all.” Mel paused for effect. “Although… now you mention it, there is perhaps one thing…”

“Anything you want,” Betty confirmed happily.

“Well.” Mel leaned forward and adopted a serious expression. “I'd really like to let Janice’s uncle know that she's here. Is there any chance you could give him a call and pass on a message? He's hasn’t been at all well, and she calls him once a day to check on him. He’ll be terribly worried that he hadn't heard from her, and in his state of health…” she let her voice trail off meaningfully.

Betty looked concerned. “Won't hearing his niece has been arrested for murder make him worry even more?”

Mel shook her head. “The important thing is that he knows where she is. And, if she's going to be here for a while, he will need to make arrangements for someone else to check on him and so on.”

“Well, alright. I'm sure that will all be fine. I'll go and do it now.” She took the piece of paper on which Mel had scribbled Bolton’s number as well as the stockings. “I might just slip these on while I'm at it.”

Mel smiled her thanks at the policewoman as she slipped out of the interview room. Well, well, Melinda, she thought to herself. Bribing police officers now. Who would ever have thought it?

Janice banged her cuffed hands on the table. “I don't know what more you want from me Inspector. I've told you what happened. Harold Montague was threatening to kill my friend. He had a knife at her throat. I was all out of options. She sighed in frustration. “Have you spoken to Mel about this?”

“Yes, we have Miss Pappas’s statement here.” Glenning pointed at some handwritten notes on his side of the table. “She corroborates your story. Says that Mr Montague was threatening her with a knife.”

“Well then.” Janice gestured with her shackled hands. “It was self-defence. Well, Mel-defence. Why am I still in your police station and in handcuffs?”

“The problem, Dr Covington, is that one of my officers witnessed the whole thing and tells a rather different tale. He says that you and Miss Pappas agreed to take part in one of the Folklore Society’s re-enactments of a traditional ceremony and that Mr Montague’s act with the knife was just that – an act.” Glenning folded his hands. “Constable Morgan further says that, while Miss Pappas may have been unaware of the nature of the ceremony and hence genuinely afraid, this was not true in your case. Look,” he adopted a kindly expression. “I understand that you're very protective of Miss Pappas. Maybe you did just panic when all this was going on.” He shook his head. “I hate the idea of a young woman like yourself on the gallows. But you’ll have a chance to explain all of this to a jury, and even if you're convicted, I think under the circumstances the Home Secretary may commute the sentence.”

Janice’s jaw worked up and down but no sound came out. She knew Morgan hated her but framing her for murder seemed a little extreme. Perhaps, she thought bleakly, he thinks Mel might be available if she was out of the picture. Damn. “I think I need a lawyer, Inspector,” she eventually croaked.

Glenning nodded. “We’ll make the arrangements.” He looked straight at her. “Janice Covington, I am charging you with the murder of Harold Montague…”

It was almost two hours since Betty had left. Mel had been alone in the windowless room since then and she wondered whether the call to Bolton had ever been made. Perhaps she had just wasted a perfectly good pair of stockings. She stretched out her long legs and sighed deeply. The evening seemed to be going from terrible to unbelievably hideous. She considered Janice’s ongoing distrust of Bolton and, perhaps for the first time, wondered if she'd been right all along.

The door opened again, interrupting her thoughts. Instead of Betty, this time it was a middle-aged policeman whom she did not recognise. He held out his hand. “Miss Pappas. I'm Inspector Glenning. I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

Mel took his hand and endured a bone crushing shake. He sat down and laid some papers on the table. “I had your statement typed up. Perhaps you could read it through and if you're happy with it just sign at the bottom there.”

That was probably where Betty had got to. Mel read through the document, circled and initialled a couple of spelling mistakes, then signed it and passed back to Glenning. “Inspector, where is Janice? Is she alright?”

Glenning took a deep breath before responding. “I'm afraid that Dr Covington has been charged with murder.”

“Murder?! What?!” Mel gripped the edge of the table. “Inspector, didn't you read my statement? Montague was trying to kill me! Janice saved my life!”

Glenning spread his hands across the table and looked down at them before continuing. “Miss Pappas, I have read your statement and I believe you did truly think that Mr Montague meant to harm you. But really, it was all part of an act, a role play of some sort. One of my officers was present and he has confirmed it all. I'm sorry, Miss Pappas, but I had no option but to charge your friend.”

“This means… does it mean… oh God!” Mel clapped a hand over her mouth. “Will they kill her?”

The Inspector looked embarrassed. “The penalty in England for murder is death, yes. But, as I've alresdy told Dr Covington, there's a good chance that a jury would look sympathetically on her. She may get away with manslaughter.” He gave Mel a kindly smile. “Either way… your friend will go in front of the magistrates on Monday, and then they’ll set a court date. There's nothing more you can do tonight. Why don't I get someone to take you back to your lodgings?”

“No. I want to see her.” Mel set her lip and stared defiantly at Glenning, who was shaking his head.

“I'm afraid not, Miss Pappas. Wait until Monday. The magistrates will probably remand her in custody and you will be able to make arrangements with the prison for visits.”

Figuring that defiance wasn't working, Mel tried a different tack and began to sob quietly. “Please, Inspector. Let me see her. Just for a couple of minutes.”

Glenning looked at her tearstained face and relented. “Very well. But just for a minute or two. Follow me.”

Janice was lying on her cot when she heard the cell door swing open. She jumped to her feet and saw, to her surprise and delight, Mel standing in the opening. She rushed towards her and flung her arms around the taller woman.

“Stay back from the door, Covington,” said a disembodied male voice. Janice ignored it, but Mel stepped further into the cell, pushing Janice back a few paces.

“Oh Janice!” Mel wailed theatrically. “This is terrible!” She let out a huge sob and then leaned into her partner, while casually letting her jacket fall open so that the archeologist could see the chakram – and also her own hunting knife – hiding underneath. “Want me to break you out?” She hissed in Janice’s ear.

Janice paused, astonished at the turn of events. She looked quizzically at the knife.

“You forgot to take it,” Mel whispered. “I saw it when we were leaving and thought I might as well bring it along. How different can it be to a sword, anyway?”

Torn, Janice eventually shook her head. If Xena was here – in Mel – then any attempt to bust her out was likely to result in carnage. “There's gotta be a better way. We’ll figure something out.”

“Alright ladies, time’s up.” The disembodied voice spoke again and Janice now saw that it belonged to the sergeant who had processed her. “Come along Miss Pappas. Time to go. You, Covington, step back.” Janice did what she was told and Mel, still snivelling impressively, turned to follow the policeman.

“Wait for me, Mel!” Janice yelled just before the door slammed. She received an incoherent wail in response.

Janice returned to her cot and put her head in her hands. “Wait for me. What a goddamn cliché. Can't believe I did that.” A cliché, she thought, and also a pretty big ask. The best outcome here was likely to be a decade or so in a British prison. The worst case scenario lay at the end of the hangman’s rope. Kinda unfair to expect Mel to hang around in either circumstance. Janice looked up at the tiny barred window near the ceiling, and noted that it was pitch black outside. It was also getting very cold in the cell. She walked to the door and banged on it. “Guard!”

The hatch in the door opened. “What is it?”

“You got an extra blanket? Or how about a smoke, huh?”

The sergeant’s face appeared in the open slot. “Piss off Covington, you murdering dyke bitch.” He slammed the hatch shut.

Janice was momentarily taken aback by the officer’s outburst, but recovered in time to kick the door in anger, before cursing horribly when she realised she wasn't wearing her boots. She hopped back over to her cot and collapsed into it.

“Miss Pappas. There's really nothing more you can do here tonight. You should go home and rest. One of my officers will walk with you.”

Mel decided that continuing to argue with Glenning was unlikely to achieve much further in the short term. She shrugged her shoulders and walked to the door. “I don't need an escort, Inspector.” Behind her, she could hear him beginning to protest but she ignored it and strode purposefully out the door.

It was extremely dark outside, with only a little moonlight cutting through the blackness. Mel made her way to a bench opposite the police station and sat down heavily. A cold rage was building within her, a feeling both scarily new and curiously familiar. She cursed the inattention that had given Montague his opportunity to attack her. She pulled the chakram from her jacket and twirled it in her hands, the cool metal deeply comforting. Well. Janice would not pay the price for her lack of concentration. She studied the building in front of her, mentally counting the high barred windows and comparing them with what she had seen of the layout of the custody area. Fairly certain she had identified the cell holding the archeologist, she heaved the chakram over her shoulder…

And stopped. The window was too high and too narrow for Janice to escape. Another plan would be needed. Various scenarios flashed through Mel’s head. An all out assault with the chakram and hunting knife. A distraction technique of some description. Stealing explosives from the military camp and blowing out the wall…

The silence in the street was shattered by the noise of engines. Mel looked up to see a large black car career around the corner and come to a halt in the middle if the road in front of the main doors to the station. The car was immediately followed by an army truck, which parked diagonally, blocking the road. The passenger door to the car swung open and Edward Bolton emerged, while a half dozen men in uniforms bearing the military police insignia jumped out of the truck and followed Bolton into the police station.

Mel jumped up and followed Bolton and his entourage into the station, where he was already yelling at the hapless desk officer to call whoever was in charge.

Glenning emerged, looking flustered. He looked around at the MPs in confusion. “Can I help you, Mr – ah…?”

“Edward Bolton. Ministry of War.” He handed over a card. “I understand that you are holding a Dr Janice Covington?”

“Yes…”

“Release her. Immediately.”

Glenning looked lost. “Mr Bolton…” he grimaced as he remembered where he had heard the name before. “Mr Bolton, when we called you said you didn't know the prisoner…”

“What are you talking about man? I came as soon as I got the message from your WPC.” Bolton was shaking his head and growing red in the face.

“WPC?” Glenning was genuinely puzzled. “No, the call would have come from one of my lads. PC Morgan.”

“One of the cultists, and the guy who pointed the finger at Janice.” Mel stepped out of the shadows and glared at the man in front of her. “I think you'll find that your officer never made that call, Inspector.”

“You let one of these cult chaps be involved in this investigation?” Bolton was incredulous. “What the HELL, Glenning?”

The inspector was beginning to babble. “PC Morgan… trustworthy… one of my finest officers…”

Bolton looked disgusted. “Enough. Release Dr Covington. Now.”

Glenning wrung his hands. “It's not that simple, Mr Bolton. Dr Covington has been charged…”

“Uncharge her. Do whatever you have to to make this go away. This investigation is now under military control. And Glenning,” here Bolton leaned forward menacingly, “If I find that she's been mistreated in any way you’ll be directing traffic for what's left of your career. Her actions may have saved this country. She is a hero.”

Glenning scurried off through the door to the custody area. Bolton turned to Mel. “Miss Pappas. My dear, are you alright?”

“Never better.” Mel allowed Bolton to take her hand. “You're a sight for sore eyes, Mr Bolton.”

The door opened and Janice emerged, looking pale and tired. Her shirt still bore Montague’s bloodstains. She nodded grimly at Bolton, who gave a tight lipped smile. “Good to see you, Dr Covington.”

“Right back atcha.” She turned to see the custody sergeant, who was carrying her belongings in his arms. He looked embarrassed as he handed them to her. Casting her eyes over them, she noticed something was missing. “Revolver, please.”

“But…” Glenning opened his mouth to protest but stopped when he saw Bolton’s face. “Certainly. I’ll get it now.”

Janice finished lacing her boots and looked up at the sergeant, who was holding a paper for her to sign. “Dr Covington. We are very sorry for any inconvenience.”

“Save it.” Janice jammed the fedora on her head and secured the gun inside her jacket. “Come on Mel. Let's blow this joint.”

“Just one thing I need to do, hon.” Mel put a steadying hand on the smaller woman’s back, dipped her and, to the astonishment of all present, including Janice, kissed her passionately.

“Ahem.” Bolton’s gentle throat clearing caused the two lovers reluctantly to break apart. “You ladies must be very tired. Follow me, please.” He led them out to where the car was waiting. “I think it's time to leave Salisbury. Before I left Oxford this evening I asked my secretary to make a reservation at the Randolph.” He turned to Janice with a faint twinkle in his eye. “I think you’ll find it more comfortable than your most recent accommodation, Dr Covington.”

They returned to the inn to collect their belongings. Mrs Tyler stood bemoaning the shame brought on her establishment by the whole affair, although her complaints dried up when she examined the cheque Bolton handed her. Meanwhile, Mel accompanied the MPs upstairs to ensure they gathered up all of their possessions. Bolton raised an eyebrow when he saw the inlaid scroll case bring loaded into the car, then thought back to his remark about turning a blind eye to Janice fencing non-relevant finds, and decided against enquiring further.

The drive to Oxford was quiet and uneventful. Janice spent most of the ride dozing in the back seat with her head on Mel’s shoulder. On arrival at the Randolph Hotel, the receptionist pulled a face at the late hour and Janice’s bloodstained shirt, but on checking the reservation his demeanour changed and he ushered the two women towards the lift while calling a porter for their luggage. They said goodnight to Bolton, agreeing to meet him the following afternoon for a full debrief.

Even from Janice’s jaundiced perspective, the suite Bolton had arranged was truly impressive. A huge bedroom was enhanced with an attractive living area and, most importantly to her, an en suite bathroom which featured an enormous tub. Mel seemed to read her mind and quickly began running the taps while examining the complimentary toiletries which, while not perhaps up to US standard, were a certainly an improvement on anything they had experienced in Salisbury.

An exhausted Janice allowed herself to be guided into the tub before sitting down and beginning to wash the blood and grime from herself. To her surprise, she saw Mel strip and join her in the bath, using a flannel to scrub her partner’s back. Once again, it was new but deliciously familiar. Janice sighed happily and closed her eyes. A few hours ago, she thought to herself, I was in a police cell with the hangman’s noose looming over me. Now I'm in a luxury hotel sharing a bath with the most beautiful woman in the world. Hmm. Maybe there is someone looking out for me after all.

The two women slept until noon, and it was only the incessant pressure on her bladder that finally forced Janice, reluctantly, to extricate herself from Mel’s arms. Exiting the bathroom, she spent a few moments gazing at the taller woman’s perfection before sitting down on the bed and gently stroking her hair. “C’mon Mel. Time to wake up. We promised we’d go see Bolton and get the low down on this whole saga.”

Mel’s startling blue eyes flickered open and she gave her partner a huge smile, before wrapping her arms around her and tugging her down onto the mattress. “How about we let him wait another hour.”

And so it was 2pm by the time the two Americans arrived at St John’s College. They ran the gauntlet of stares and whisper from the male students and staff which Janice had already experienced. Mel considered how this might have intimidated her a few short weeks ago, but now seemed water off the proverbial duck’s back.

Bolton was pleased to see them and launched immediately into the lengthy debrief session. Firstly, he apologised for not reaching them before the ceremony, but apparently a message left at the inn early on Saturday had not reached them. He explained that the German agent who had given his trackers the slip a couple of weeks earlier had been tracked to an address in Swindon and had died in a shoot out there on Friday morning. A search of his rooms had revealed notes in German referring to a secret weapon being “birthed” at an ancient site. Bolton had creased his face at that point, noting that the translation sounded odd and was probably a misunderstanding. Both Mel and Janice had opted to smile, nod and keep quiet at that revelation.

Investigators also found Montague’s contact details and evidence of payments made to him from Berlin, along with a number of esoteric texts featuring as yet undeciphered instructions on summoning an evil entity.

The stones had been put under military guard and the digsite sealed. Stephen Morgan, Paul Holland and the other cultists who had been traced so far were under arrest and likely to remain in detention for the rest of the war. The obsidian dagger, along with the sinister statue, had been passed to the Ashmolean Museum, which would decide if and when to put them on public display.

Bolton concluded by saying that he and his superiors were satisfied that the threat, whilst not thoroughly understood, was very real and posed a serious threat to the country. It was impossible to put a value on the work of the two women in infiltrating the cult, and in particular on Janice’s elimination of its leader. He advised that the British Government was keen to thank them both directly, and promised to pick them both up at 10 the next morning for a trip to London.

Neither Janice nor Mel was used to such effusive praise, and having left St John’s they did not rush to speak of it. Instead, they spent the afternoon wandering the streets, taking in the sites and feeding ducks by the river. It was in many ways a perfect day, and they rounded it off with dinner in the hotel restaurant. Janice even chose to dress up in the forest green dress and to allow Mel to style her hair.

As the two happy and slightly tipsy women returned to their suite, they were surprised to see a bottle of champagne cooling in an ice bucket. Mel frowned. “I've probably had enough to drink for one night, Janice.”

“Musta been a present from Bolton.” Janice picked up the bottle and began removing the foil. “Taittinger. Sounds fancy. C’mon Mel, one glass won't hurt.” She tried to twist the cork. “Damn, that's stiff.”

A flash of blue light erupted in the room and both women almost jumped out of their skin before Mel recovered sufficiently to hit the deck and pull a startled Janice, still clutching the champagne bottle, down with her. “What the –“

“Relax, ladies. Nothing to be alarmed about.” The blue light had vanished to be replaced by the bearded man from the Macedonia tomb. As Janice scrambled to her feet he reached out for the bottle. “Please. Allow me.”

Standing up, Mel noticed for the first time that there were three glasses arranged next to the ice bucket. Ares deftly twisted the bottle and began to pour. “Ah, I love this stuff. So much better than that godsawful mead we were stuck with back in the day.” He handed a glass to Mel. “For you, my dear. You look as radiant as when I first saw you.” Turning to Janice, he gave a wink. “Don't take that ‘irritating blonde’ stuff to heart. Just our little joke, eh?” He raised his glass in a toast. “Well, bottoms up!”

Janice recovered enough to speak. “What the hell is going on? We left you trapped in that tomb!”

Mel chimed in. “Are you really Ares?”

Smiling and shaking his head in amusement, Ares sat down heavily in one of the suite’s overstuffed armchairs. “Yes, I am really Ares. And does anyone really think that a spooky tomb and some fancy optics could hold the God of War?” He drained the glass and signalled for a top up, which Janice reluctantly supplied. “I set it up. The whole thing. A honey trap for that fool Smythe and his Nazi backers, and, more importantly, to allow you two to meet again and start kicking major butt. Just like in the good old days.” A dreamy look came across his face.

“Woah, woah, woah.” Janice pressed two fingers to her temple. “Meet again? What are you talking about? The first time I laid eyes on Mel was in a tent in Macedonia.”

Ares smirked. “In this life, perhaps.” He tapped his fingers against the champagne glass. “When we met in the tomb, I said you were descendants of Xena and her little bard, huh? Well, it's true that you're related to them. But there's a much more direct connection. Your souls.”

It was Mel’s turn to profess bafflement. “I don't understand…”

“You both have… ancient souls. And every lifetime you come together.” Ares stood up and gazed out the window at the darkened Oxford streets. “When I first knew you, it was as Xena and Gabrielle. I've followed your progress in every lifetime since. Usually you look similar to how I remember, although sometimes… you're very different. This time round, though,” Ares turned and gestured dramatically towards the two Americans, “The resemblance is uncanny! So, I figure, what would these girls be able to do with a chakram and a sense of adventure.” He grinned broadly. “I haven't been disappointed so far!”

Mel frowned. “So, er, Ares,” she tried to ignore how ridiculous that sounded, “Are you telling us that we ARE Xena and Gabrielle?”

Ares had removed a dagger from his belt and was using it to clean his nails. “In a manner of speaking, yes. Their souls are in your bodies. There's some superficial differences, sure. You're a lot more genteel than Xena ever was, while Blondie here is a tougher cookie than Gabby was, at least to start with. But, yeah. You are they, so to speak.” He grinned again. “And, I have to say, you handled that whole Dahak business much more effectively than your forebears. No Hope this time round!” He laughed at his joke. “Course, you had a bit of help.”

The picture suddenly became clear. Janice tutted. “You led us to that cave, didn't you. Led us to the scrolls. You were probably the one who hid them there. It was you I saw standing by it, when I thought I heard a gunshot.” Another thought struck her. “You told Montague that I was related to their original patsy.”

Ares shrugged. “Worked, didn't it?”

“Wait a moment.” Mel shook her head. “This doesn't make sense. In the tomb you said that you supported what Hitler is doing! Why are you helping us?”

“I'm the God of War. I thrive on conflict. The glory and honour of battle. But what's going on in Germany now…” Ares snarled. “That's just evil. I want no part in it.”

“But you said…”

“To rile you up. Worked, didn't it? Anyway,” Ares rested one hand on the pommel of the sword on his belt and used the other to blow a kiss, “Gotta go. It's been great catching up. I'm sure I'll see you again soon.”

Another flash of blue light, and he was gone.

EPILOGUE

As the car wound its way through the London streets, Edward Bolton turned in his seat and looked again at the passengers behind him. Melinda Pappas, demure in a lilac suit, looking out the window and pointing out landmarks. Dr Janice Covington, in her usual archeologist’s gear, complete with fedora, pretending not to be excited. He turned back and smiled to himself. Over the past few weeks he'd developed a paternal affection for the two women. It was a shame they would soon be returning to the States.

The car drew up outside a door guarded by soldiers, and the three visitors were ushered through to a tiny reception area, where their IDs were checked. Another soldier arrived to escort them down a narrow corridor before knocking on the door at the end of it.

“Come.” A deep voice boomed from inside and the soldier opened the door before saluting and standing aside.

“After you.” Bolton waved the two women in front of him. They entered to see a large bald man sat behind a desk. In front of him were two telephones and numerous piles of paper. A map of Europe was pinned to a large cork board behind him.

The man looked up. “Miss Pappas. Dr Covington. A pleasure.” He nodded at Bolton. “And you too, Bolton. “

Janice shook his hand. “Mr Churchill. It's an honour…”

Churchill raised his hand. “No need for formalities. Sit, please.” He reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of brandy and four glasses. “A toast, I think, to the both of you. Mr Bolton here has told me all about what transpired.” He poured generous measures and handed the glasses around before continuing. “I can't pretend to understand it all, but it sounds as though we've had a lucky escape.” He raised his glass. “Great Britain is in your debt, ladies. I only wish your government was as willing to defend freedom as its citizens.”

A cigar case appeared and Churchill offered the contents to his visitors, all of whom, even Mel, took one. There was a brief silence while everyone savoured the drink and smoke, before Churchill spoke again. “I trust Miss Pappas and Dr Covington have been well remunerated for their services?”

“I have agreement to offer them £1,000.”

Churchill made a dismissive noise. “Double it!”

“Of course, sir.” Bolton scribbled something on a piece of paper.

Mel and Janice glanced at each other. This was a huge sum which would fund their research for a good while and allow Janice to have some long overdue maintenance done on the Georgetown house.

Churchill was speaking again. “Have arrangements been made to return you to the United States?”

Bolton interjected. “Certainly, Prime Minister. A transport plane will return them later this week.”

Churchill grunted. “Excellent. Although,” he took a drag from his cigar, “You ladies would be a real asset to this country and the war effort. I don't suppose we could persuade you to stay for a while? I'm sure Mr Bolton could find plenty more missions for the two of you.”

The two Americans locked eyes and each sensed the feelings of the other. Janice turned to the Prime Minister and nodded. “We would be delighted, Mr Churchill.”

“Splendid. Well, Mr Bolton will make the arrangements. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have a meeting with the Admiralty.”

Churchill stood and shook hands with his guests. He opened the door and the waiting soldier saluted again and escorted the three visitors to the exit.

They stood in the warm sunshine, gazing up at the historic buildings around them. “Impressive,” murmured Mel.

“Very.” Janice adjusted her hat. “Let's hope Hitler’s bombers don't wreck it.”

“Alright, ladies,” said Bolton. “My driver will take you back to Oxford. You're booked into the Randolph for the rest of the week. I've got some arrangements to make here. I'll be in touch in a couple of days. In the meantime, enjoy the R and R.”

“Ya heard what he said sweetheart.” Janice squeezed her partner’s hand before climbing into the car. “R and R it is. I figure there's gonna be plenty more action in the not too distant future.”

Mel smiled at her blonde companion and settled down in the back of the car next to her. “Sounds like a plan.”

THE END

Return to the Academy

Author's Page