The Witch Hunter Chronicles: Hunted

Our day began way too early with a series of awkward encounters. First, an awkward breakfast before dawn of freeze-dried eggs, coffee, and canned fruit, with Marc playing the role of the mute sidekick. That was followed by an awkward packing session where we carried gun cases, backpacks, and duffle bags to Marc, and he silently stuffed them in the back of the SUV like they were part of a jigsaw puzzle. Then Marc drove in silence and the rest of us slept or played on our new phones.

We’d had the choice of a Mercedes GLS SUV and an Audi A8 Sedan, but quickly realized we didn’t really have a choice due to all the gear we’d packed. In addition to our new clothes and a smattering of guns, we had all sorts of gadgets like night-vision goggles, smoke grenades, sound amplifiers that looked like miniature satellite dishes, a high-end laptop with an onion browser and four brand new but slightly dated iPhone X’s. Various tools, rope and the obligatory roll of duct tape were stuffed into a red metal toolbox. There was even a few thousand dollars in cash and a small stack of prepaid visa cards to cover expenses.

I intermittently watched the scenery for an hour or so as the scrub brush was replaced with green hills, then pine forests then back to green hills. The first castle was cool, but by the 9th, it was barely worth the trouble to turn my head. By the time we reached the coastal city of San Sebastián, I’d already tried and failed to get into my old social accounts. My collection of passwords was in my personal phone safely stored in my locker at School. A combination of Jordan’s snoring and Lucía ’s bean issues finally finished off my patience. I pushed Jordan’s head off my shoulder and stuck my head closer to the front seats.

“I think it’s time to talk about swords and quests,” I said.

Marc’s eyes remained on the road, but he nodded.

Lucía yawned and said, “Sure, what do you want to know.”

“Everything,” I said.

“Oh, is that all?” Lucía asked. “Well, let’s see. The sword is made out of steel. Steel is created through a metallurgical process where carbon is mixed with iron-”

“Ok, ok, ok,” I said. “Point taken. So, this church or whatever-”

“The Citadel at Blaye,” Lucía interjected.

“Or whatever,” I continued, “is where Roland is buried.”

She nodded. “He was technically buried in the Basilica of Saint-Romain, but that’s now in ruins. The Citadel was built over the old structure hundreds of years later.”

“And we think his sword is with him because of my dream and Marc’s insider information?” I asked. “Because the internet says some King opened the crypt a few hundred years ago. If Roland’s sword was there, it’s gone now.”

“You did internet research?” Jordan asked rhetorically. “You must be really bored.”

“You have no idea,” I answered.

I just about jumped when Marc uttered his first words of the day.

“It was the King of France at the time, Francois the First, and that’s been the prevailing theory up until recently,” he said. “But that left hundreds of years for it to show up for sale on the grey market or on display in some rich guy’s private collection. It never did.”

My uncle Felix...” Lucía started, then paused and took a deep breath before continuing, “who’s probably dead now - even searched the Château d’Amboise personally and never found it. He did find this in a secret room,” she added, holding up her hand to show off a gold ring on her finger. “He said it might come in handy one day.”

I totally forgot about that ring. It somehow protected us from the witch’s blade on the plane.

“What’s the deal with that ring anyway?” I asked.

“It originally belonged to Sir Lancelot. It nullifies magic,” Lucìa replied.

Sure, why not. Nothing sounds crazy at this point.

“You always were his favorite,” Marc said. Lucìa smiled, but she looked like she was going to cry. Marc continued, “What Mom came across a few months back was a diary written by a soldier who was guarding Christian pilgrims traveling the Tours Road outside of St Roman’s Basilica around the time of Roland’s death.”

I’m pretty sure these pilgrims have nothing to do with Thanksgiving. Pretty sure...

“You may want to explain to Jordan what a pilgrim is,” I said.

“Thanks, Kenz,” he replied, “but I understand the concept.”

I glared at Jordan, who smiled while avoiding my gaze. “You should probably explain it to him anyway,” I said.

Lucía smiled a knowing smile that I didn’t appreciate. “Pilgrims are people that travel to religious sites to see old tombs or pray next to holy relics. There’s still Muslims and Christians today that travel to places like Jerusalem.”

“So, like, religious super fans?” I said.

“Um…” Lucia started.

“To be fair, there weren’t a lot of things to do before TV and professional sports,” Jordan added.

“They had those paper Kindles,” Jordan added.

“Books, right?” I asked. “And didn’t people knit?”

“And widdle,” Jordan added. I squinted. “You know, carving wood,” he added.

“Then why don’t they just call it carving,” I asked.

“I’ll ask them if I ever meet them,” Jordan said. “Whoever they are.”

“Are we still talking about the mission?” Marc asked, somewhat rudely.

He’s lucky he’s so pretty. So pretty. Focus Kenzie.

“Who’s stopping you?” I asked.

I saw his eyes narrow a bit in the rear-view mirror. “The journal mentioned a tunnel that was dug just outside the Basilica over the course of a week in September of 778 AD. The guard0 never saw inside the tunnel, but he watched men go in with tools and wood and leave with dirt and rocks for many days. This was strange because there was already a catacomb in the Abbey where St Romanus and much of the line of Merovingian kings were buried, and it was only half-full.”

“A few days after the digging stopped, a large ship appeared in the harbor, and that evening two marble coffins were carried down into the tunnel. Soon after that, the tunnel was covered and that fall an addition to the Abbey was built over the top of it. This was a full week before the public funeral where two coffins were buried in the public vault.”

“Two coffins?” Lucìa asked. “Who was in the other one?”

“His squire Oliver, who died fighting next to him,” Marc replied.

“Squire, huh?” Jordan said. “So that’s what they called it back then.” He pursed his lips and rubbed his chin. “How does one go about getting a squire.”

“Stop it,” I said to Jordan. “So, the vault that the old king cleaned out...” I started.

“Was the one with the fake set of coffins,” Lucìa finished.

Marc nodded.

“Please don’t tell me that means we’re digging up graves,” Jordan said.

“Not digging exactly,” Marc said. “The official term is grave robbing.”

“Good to know,” Jordan replied. “I wouldn’t want to use the wrong term.”

“If we’re caught there’s prison time involved,” Marc added.

“That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Jordan said.

“You and Marc would share a cell,” I added.

“Oh, now that’s intriguing,” Jordan said.

“Then they won’t take me alive,” Marc said, flashing his first smile in quite some time.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve got to roll down this window,” I said. I had the perfect view of Lucía’s left cheek as it went scarlet.

Cool, fresh air wafted over us, and the smell of hydrogen sulfide was replaced with the earthy aroma of soil and vegetation, and the slight briny smell of the nearby Atlantic Ocean.

The sooner we got Lucy off the beans-and-rice diet, the better for all of us.

“Who’s hungry?” I asked. “I’m in the mood for anything that doesn’t involve beans.”

Lucìa just stared at her shoes.

“I could eat,” Jordan said. This was his standard answer. The next time he says he isn’t hungry will in fact be the first time.

“We’ll be in Bordeaux in a half-hour or so,” Lucìa replied. She pulled out her phone and her thumbs danced. “It’s a major city, so there should be some great restaurant choices.”

“I’m in the mood for a burger,” I said.

“You want to order a hamburger in France?” Lucìa asked. “Really?”

“I’ll order French fries as well if it makes you feel any better,” I replied.

“It doesn’t,” Lucía replied. “I’m not searching for burger joints in French wine country unless it’s a royal decree.”

“Fine, whatever,” I said. “But no snails and no crepes. I’ve got standards after all.”

“I can work with that,” Lucìa said. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll find us something good.” She went to work on her phone, while I gave my eyes a break from the little screen and stared out the window.

“Hey a castle,” Jordan said, pointing to a small, grey structure on a hill, surrounded by a vineyard.

“You slept through the other nine,” I replied.

We were still a few miles outside the outskirts of the city when Lucìa broke the silence, “I found a place called Le Petit Mignon that I think everyone will like. It’s got great reviews, it’s within walking distance to the Place de la Bourse – which I’ve always wanted to see in person – and here’s the kicker… their specialty is steak and fries.”

***

“You swear you’re not allergic to steak,” Jordan said, in between shoving in his last bite of ribeye, “or potatoes for that matter.”

“I’m not allergic to anything,” Lucía replied. “I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Fine,” he said, “are you potato starch intolerant?”

Her cheeks went pink as she sipped her coffee.

“Oh, leave her alone,” I said, taking the last three fries off his plate and shoving them in my mouth before he could object. The fries were shorter than American fries, but they were still deep fried and salty. I still had a little steak left, but my fries were long gone.

The waitress returned to check up on us and remove some plates. She wore a red apron over a black shirt, and her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She asked Marc in accented English, “Another bottle monsieur?”

“One was enough,” he replied. “These guys barely helped me.”

“I have an unrefined palate,” I told her. She frowned slightly. “All wine tastes like battery acid.” Her frown deepened.

Even Jordan wasn’t keen on midday drinking. Well, at least Marc’s smiling now.

“Then desert, perhaps?”

Everyone looked at me. Apparently, I have a rep. The waitress gave me an expectant smile, likely seeing a quick way to pad her tip on a slow weekday.

“I’m actually too full,” I said, probably for the first time in my life.

She sniffed and walked off.

Marc paid the bill and we all walked out into the warm afternoon sun. Bordeaux is a port city, and all the major landmarks and restaurants are built along the Garonne River. The buildings are mostly tan or grey stone, and some of the more ancient looking structures looked like castles with all their arches and pointy towers.

“You look like a tourist,” Jordan said. “Gawk more subtly.”

“We’re not in a huge rush to get back on the road, are we?” Lucía asked. “Honestly, I don’t care if we are,” she said without waiting for an answer. “You’re all following me.” She marched off and didn’t look back.

“Generally, I like a woman that knows what she wants,” Marc said, “but not when it’s my sister.”

I reached over and grabbed his hand.

I guess I know what I want.

Marc looked down at his hand, then up at me. But he didn’t let go.

I guess he likes it from me.

Jordan made eye contact with me raised his eyebrows before giving me a thumbs up. We set off in Lucía ’s direction along the concrete walkway that ran parallel to the river.

We were all wearing jeans and t-shirts that mostly fit. There were emergency spare clothes at the cabin, but it wasn’t exactly a retail store. All but Lucía. Somehow, she found a pair of size eight black pumps and a blue summer dress that fit like it was tailored for her.

“How exactly did Lucy find a dress that fit her, uh, unique proportions,” I asked.

Marc looked slightly uncomfortable. “She found some of Mama’s old clothes in a dresser,” he replied. “Similar builds, I suppose.”

“Those two could be honorary Kardashians,” Jordan added. He threw an arm around Marc’s shoulder. Surprisingly, Marc didn’t wince.

“What’s a Kardashian?” he asked. He looked at the offending arm for a second but then let it go.

“A family of curvy, rich women that date famous dudes,” Jordan answered.

“Can we please stop talking about this subject?” he asked.

Lucía looked back quickly and then did a double take. She stood and waited with narrowed eyes until we caught up.

“Well, don’t you three look cozy?” she said.

Why’s she looking at me like that?

“Where are you dragging us hermana?”

“The Place de la Bourse,” she replied. We all stared at her while she stared back. The sound of crickets is the background would have been fitting. Finally, she asked, “Seriously?”

“I’ve heard of the Eiffel Tower and the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” I said. “Is it related to either of those?”

“The Leaning Tower of Pizza is in Italy,” Jordan said, “but I agree with Kenz’s premise that the name isn’t something the average American teenager has ever heard of.”

“Was that my premise?” I asked.

“Wasn’t it?” he asked back.

I nodded. “Let’s go with it,” I agreed.

“Brother, I’m most disappointed in you,” Lucía answered. Her eyes flicked to our hands again.

“I’m used to that,” he answered.

Lucía sighed, and her hands started working the air. “It was Napoleon’s imperial palace among other things. And in front of it is the Miroir d’Eau. You know I’ve always wanted to see it.”

“Oh, that fancy wading pool is here?” Marc asked.

“It’s more than a fancy wading pool, hermano,” she answered.

Marc smiled wryly. “Aren’t we going to take our shoes off and walk around in it?” he asked.

She threw up her hands and said, “Sure, fine it’s a fancy wading poll. Let’s get a move on.”

The palace turned out to be a four-story horseshoe-shaped stone and marble building, covered in windows and capped with multiple pointy towers. The courtyard in front had a fountain topped with multiple naked women dead center.

“Would it hurt to have a naked dude or two up there as well,” I asked.

“I totally agree,” Jordan added.

“For gender equality reasons?” I asked, already knowing that wasn’t the reason.

“Let’s go with that,” Jordan said with a wink.

At the other end of the courtyard was the fancy wading pool. It was basically a grid of squares the size of a soccer field covered in an inch of water.

“It’s beautiful, right?” Lucía asked no one in particular as she slipped off her shoes. “If you look at it from a boat on the river, it looks like the entire courtyard is flooded.” She stepped into the water, turned back, looked at us and added, “Are you just going to stand there like statues or are we all getting our feet wet?”

Marc shrugged. Jordan asked, “How sanitary is this water? I mean, like, how many sweaty feet per day are we talking here? I don’t really smell any chlorine.”

There were other tourists milling about, but more supermarket on Tuesday crowded than theme park packed.

I slipped off my shoes and stepped in. We were probably up to the low 80’s outside, the sky was clear, and the water was cool, not cold. I looked at Lucía and she looked at me.

Is she thinking what I’m thinking?

She raised an eyebrow and I smiled mischievously.

Yep.

Lucía quickly bent down and scooped up two handfuls of water and splashed Jordan in the face. At the same time, I kicked some water at Marc with the side of my foot. I was hoping for a general spritzing, but instead a solid spray of water hit him squarely in the chest.

While Jordan peeled off his shoes, Marc looked down at his wet shirt, then back up at me. He unsuccessfully repressed a smile as he slipped out of his shoes and began to peel off his socks. I slowly began to back away as he stepped into the water. Then he was running at me with a smile ear-to-ear. I squealed like a kid half my age and ran.

We splashed from one end of the waterway to the other. He was pretty fast. It was almost a challenge for me to stay out of reach. I’ve been the fastest kid – not girl... kid – in my class since preschool. I didn’t lose races. No one caught me at tag. I could dribble a soccer ball, or a basketball faster than most kids could run. Marc wasn’t going to catch me unless I let him – which I was obviously going to do. I just wanted to make him work for it. After juking him a few times and kicking water at him until he was soaked, I let him run me down in a straightaway in the middle of the fountain.

I felt his hand grab my shoulder and my old judo training took over. I held his arm and rolled to the ground, taking him down with me. He went over my shoulder, but rather than slamming him, I put us in a roll and we both ended up on our backs. I sat up and looked down at Marc. His eyes were wide.

Idiot!

“I’m sorry,” I started. “It’s the adrenaline. I didn’t mean-”

He started to laugh uncontrollably, like it was the funniest thing in the world. I began to giggle and then I just lost it as well. When the laughter finally cleared, our eyes sort of met.

When he didn’t move in, I took the initiative and kissed him. He didn’t pull away.