“Thanks,” I tell the guys.
“Get some sleep,” Alex advises. “You might not feel it at the moment, but a psychic attack exhausts the system.”
“Will do.” I say goodbye and sign off.
Within ten minutes, I’m in bed. I lie on my side and close my eyes, then turn onto my back and look up at the ceiling. I can’t stop thinking about her. Everything she did to me in the car, I want to happen for real. But when she finds out who I really am, she’s going to be angry that I’ve lied to her. She might be so angry that it stays a barrier between us.
It’s a long, long while before I fall asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Persephone
Just after two p.m., Martin shows me into his office for my interview.
I sit in the chair in front of his desk and place my CV on the table. “How did the meeting go this morning?” I ask.
“Excellent.” He picks up the CV and browses it. “All due, I’ve no doubt, to the superior quality of the booklets and the fact that there were no typos in the presentation.”
I smile, pleased with the compliment. Of course, I’d like to do more than just unjam the photocopier for a living, but I understand that applying for funding and keeping the administrative side running is an important part of the job.
“Great.” He places the CV to one side and leans back. “So tell me a bit more about your degree, what you did and didn’t enjoy.”
We talk for a while about archaeology, and I tell him about my deep fascination for the county we live in, and how much I would love to be involved in exploring its history.
“What’s your view on including the public in the process?” he asks. “Do you think it’s damaging to ask Joe Bloggs to help with his metal detector, or would you like to encourage more people to take an interest?”
I hesitate, conscious I’m in an interview, and not wanting to blow my chances because my opinions might disagree with his. Archaeologists and historians can be stuffy and snobbish about their subject. But we got on well enough yesterday that I believe our thoughts run the same way, and anyway, it’s best to be honest.
“Whilst, of course, having hundreds of people tramping over an archaeological site removing artifacts with no idea of their context isn’t a good idea,” I reply, “I’m very much for utilizing the interest and time that many amateurs have. I don’t believe people should be excluded just because they don’t have a qualification in a subject. Educating the public should be one of the most important factors in our work.”
“Quite right,” he says, to my relief. “So, tell me about something historical or archaeological that’s caught your interest recently.”
I think about my current reading pile. “I have a fascination for the fourteenth century—the Great Famine, the Black Death, and the deserted medieval villages that resulted from the drop in population. I think I told you that I did my dissertation on that.” Then something else comes into my mind. “But this week, one thing I’ve been researching is the Devil’s Footprints. Have you heard of those?”
He shakes his head, so I tell him about the mysterious footprints that appeared across the rooftops of the villages on the moors.
“And they never discovered what made them?” he asks.
“No. There were lots of suggestions, but none of them were plausible.”
“What do you think they were?” His eyes glitter in the fluorescent light. Behind him, snow is falling lightly, and it reminds me of the riverbank, the wolf’s prints, of Mac’s mouth on mine as he gave me the kiss of life.
I blink. “I’m sure they were from some animal, a goat, maybe, that had the wind up its tail and was enjoying a midnight run.”
“Probably.” He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He clears his throat and looks down at the sheet of questions before him. “So, tell me a little about yourself, your family, your hobbies.”
We chat for a while, and then eventually it’s time to go, and we stand and shake hands. “I have a couple of interviews tomorrow,” he informs me. “I’ll be able to let you know on Thursday, probably after midday.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that.”
He walks with me to the door. “And once again, thanks for your help yesterday. It came at just the right time.”
“Like your guardian angel.” I grin at him, then wave and leave the field unit.
I pause on the pavement, looking up and down the street. It’s nearly three p.m., and I’m not seeing Mac until six. I’m not ready to go home yet. I turn to the left and start walking toward the high street, my hands in my pockets and my shoulders hunched against the fierce wind. Ooh, it’s cold.
When I get to the high street, I cross and go into Waterstones, the bookshop. It’s warmer in here, and I linger for a while, walking slowly down the length of the shop, touching the spines of the books, and enjoying being with the others around me who are quietly perusing the titles.
At the other end of the shop, I emerge into the cold afternoon. I go to the nearby café and buy myself a coffee, then warm my hands on it as I walk toward the cathedral.
I know it was founded in AD1050 near to an even older Saxon minster, and much of the building is Norman. Although I follow another religion, Kimi has taught me that buildings like this one are usually built on crossroads of the Deep Network of ley lines that run through the land, so this is a site of ancient power. As I cross the stones that sit atop the Roman baths buried beneath, I fancy that I can feel the presence of all the people who have passed this way over the years, both to work on the building of the cathedral, and to worship here.
I stop in front of the magnificent west end. It rears up before me, huge, brooding. Snow falls softly around me, and I know it’s my imagination, but I swear I can hear it landing on the stones. Or is it humming I can hear? I close my eyes and imagine I’m a tree, sending roots deep into the earth. Yes, it’s humming, and suddenly I know what it is—I can hear and feel the power of the old building sitting atop the convergence of the ley lines, funneling the energy.
I exhale, and as my eyelids flicker open, I watch my frosted breath spread around me into a thick mist. Then I inhale sharply. Someone is standing next to me. It’s a woman, of a similar height to me, slender, with brown hair.
“Tia?” I say her name, but she doesn’t respond. I try to move toward her, but I can’t shift my feet, as if I’m frozen to the ground. I know then that she isn’t really here. This is a vision.
She turns her head, though, and looks straight at me. Her eyes are shiny with unshed tears.
“What’s the matter?” I whisper. “Talk to me.”
“I’m sorry.” Her words are so quiet, they are almost lost on the breeze that plays with her hair.
“What are you sorry for?” I frown, my heart banging against my ribs. “Where did you go? Where are you?”
“Help me, Persy…”
“I want to. Tell me where you are.”
Her face is full of sorrow. “I’m lost.”
“Tia…”
“Be careful.” Her eyes hold fear. “They’re coming after you, too.”