The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

“Is that the actual round table?” Jordan asked Hugo as we stepped through the door.

He chuckled. “No, but it is a replica based on the old tales,” he replied. He lowered his voice and added, “If there ever really was a round table, it’s been lost to time.”

The room went quiet, and every head turned to look at me. I stood there dumbly as my heart jackhammered against my ribs.

Do they expect me to say something? Are they going to introduce me to everyone one-by-one?

“Senorita?” The cute security guy had my seat pulled out and waiting for me next to Hugo. Somehow, he already had a glass of Scotch in his hand.

“Thanks,” I said, returning his smile. Marc, who was seated to Hugo’s right, frowned at the guy, which made my smile even more spectacular.

Oh, this is fun.

After goatee pushed in my seat in, a porter brought me a glass of ice water and a plate. “May I get you anything?” he asked.

There were trays of pastries, bagels, and breakfast sandwiches, along with fruit, coffee, and tea. Everyone at the table had something in front of them.

“I’ll have a chocolate croissant, and I just know my friend Jordan will want that lemon Danish.” I turned in my seat and looked back at Jordan. “Isn’t that right bro?”

He sighed. “Yeah, that and a black coffee please.”

“Don’t get chocolate on your face,” Lucía said, and added, “or in your hair,” under her breath.

The man returned with lemon water and my croissant. Before he could hand the Danish to Jordan, I patted the table and said, “He’d like to let it rest right here for a while.”

The croissant was flaky, golden, a tad greasy and took two hands to hold. The Danish had the correct ratio of lemon curd to crust, which means covered. They were both works of art. Then I made the mistake of looking up.

A quick head count told me there were just over fifty people at the table and at least as many sitting in the outer ring. Then there were the guards to consider. And goatee. And Marc. They weren’t all staring at me at once, but it seemed that at any one time, about a third of them were. My stomach twisted and turned upside down. I pushed the plates away.

Jordan scooted his chair forward and said, “I can’t believe all these people are here to see me.”

“You?”

“Sure,” he said. “You come back all the time. I’m history in the making.”

“Please.” I picked up the Danish and took a bite. “They probably think you’re here to take notes and carry my stuff.”

“Good Danish?” he asked.

“So good,” I said after another bite. “Top five all-time.”

How does he always know?

“Thanks,” I said.

He reached forward to pluck a croissant flake out of my hair. “Don’t mention it.”

Hugo stood and placed his hands flat on the table. He cleared his throat and then said, “As you all know, I called this meeting of the Board because the High Queen has returned.”

I just about jumped out of my skin as the room erupted into hoots and cheers. The temperature of the room felt like it instantly went up ten degrees.

Hugo smiled down at me and then turned back to the onlookers and continued, “Thank you all for making the long trip here. I know some of you have come from as far west as New York City.” He made eye contact with a wiry man with thinning hair. The man nodded and Hugo continued. “Our young liege survived an assassination attempt and was forced to fly halfway around the world with a bullet lodged in her side. I thought it best not to tax her with a flight to our normal meeting place in London while she was still recovering.”

There were gasps and looks of shock from the crowd when the word assassination was uttered.

His version definitely sounded direr than shallow wounds from bullet fragments. I wonder if he just didn’t want to travel.

One voice rose above the din. “Begging your pardon Hugo, but how do we know she’s the one?” He looked to me to be in his sixtyies, with a head full of thick, wavy grey hair, deep lines around his eyes, and ears the size of doorknobs. He was pale with rosy cheeks, and he had that lilting accent that was clearly Irish. He stood up and said, “I seem to remember a hubbub about that young president in America a few years back…”

There were irritated murmurs from the crowd, and more than a few scowls in the man’s direction.

Hugo slapped the table a few times, and the room quieted. “The rumors about Obama were nothing more than hopeful musings, Seamus,” he replied.

One woman about the same age as the man, and of similar complexion said, “An assassination attempt is proof enough, cousin,” and then the room went into a buzz of competing voices.

Why do his ears look so familiar?

Hugo frowned as he looked around the table at the pockets of animated conversation. Finally, he clinked the side of his glass with a pen until the noise quieted down. When he once again had the attention of the room, he said, “Seamus, this information came directly from…” He paused, and the next line seemed to pain him, considering the face he made. “The man who calls himself Merlin.”

“Ha, the old curmudgeon himself,” Seamus said. “That gombeen’s as slippery as a mossy stone. If he’s so sure, why isn’t the old man here in the flesh to introduce the lass?”

More murmurs ensued.

“Are you related to Michael McGregor,” I asked Seamus.

Oh, here we go channeling ghosts again.

The man squinted at me for a few beats before answering, “Aye, lass. He was my grandfather.”

“You look like him,” I replied. “And he’s the only man who I’ve ever heard call Merlin a gombeen… also a flek, a skut, a gobdaw and once-”

“Let me guess – a gobshite?” Seamus answered. I nodded. The man was smiling now. He flicked his ears with his index fingers and added, “These give me away?”

“Your ears are distinctive,” I replied, smiling back at him. “But it’s just as much your voice and your mannerisms. You hold your head at the same angle, for one. It’s uncanny, really. The Irish genes are strong.”

“Aye they are, lass,” he replied. He was smiling now, and his face was a little pinker than it had been.

“Is the old cabin still in the family?” I asked. He nodded. “He invited me one weekend for fishing you know, but we mostly smoked cigars and drank single malt.”

“I have a picture of you and he sitting on the porch doing just that, and I keep it in a frame above me desk.”

“Were you the skinny kid that took the picture?” I asked. “You couldn’t have been more than six or seven at the time.”

Seamus nodded, and suddenly he looked like he was going to be overtaken with emotion. He sat back down at the desk and said in a quiet voice, “Welcome back, your majesty.”

Hugo looked down at me with a face drained of blood. His drink shook in his hand. When he realized, he drained the glass and put it back carefully on the table.

I started to remember fragments of things, like a little dirty-faced boy with big ears saying, “Smile, Uncle Winston,” and taking my picture. Random images of faces and places I’d never seen, voices and phrases I didn’t recognize began to play out or overlapping succession in my mind. The room was loud again as side conversations filled the air. The world began to dim as I felt a bout of vertigo coming on. The room spun out of control, and I was falling…

A strong hand on my shoulder steadied me. “You ok?” Jordan asked. When I didn’t answer, he pressed my glass of water into my hands. “Here, drink,” he said, and I did, draining the entire glass. The ice-cold water seemed to help me focus on the here and now.

Hugo thumped the table and called for silence. When the room quieted again, he asked, “Does anyone else need a demonstration, or can we move on?”

Unfortunately, no one had the chance to answer, because just then, all hell broke loose.