Scriostóir - 4

Cerdic was quite relieved when the plane touched down on the tarmac at Heathrow Airport. He abhorred long flights even though he knew they were a necessary evil. There were times when he wondered why one of the benefits of being a Scriostóir hadn’t been the ability to teleport from place to place. The only time that perk was allowed was when traveling through the veil, going from one time to another, something he hadn’t had to do since the seventeen-hundreds when he’d been permanently assigned to what eventually would become the United States of America.

Unlike Caomhnóir, the Scriostóir were kept in one place once they had proven their worth. That way each one knew his or her territory and was able to respond at an instant’s notice when something occurred that they could use to their advantage. In Cerdic’s case, it was the US, primarily New York City with its international community. He was devoutly glad that he had not drawn Washington, DC. Having to deal with the politicians there would have driven him crazy, even though manipulating them was very easy, according to his colleague there.

Now, he was in London, or would be once he found a taxi to take him to the heart of the city and the Savoy, where he would be staying for the duration. The cabdriver, when Cerdic finally got one, was a taciturn man, much to Cerdic’s delight. He hated chatty cabbies; they distracted him from his contemplation of the drive into or through a city.

Upon his arrival at the Savoy, he was greeted warmly by the doorman then quite effusively by the woman at the check-in desk.

“Mr. Wyndham, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” she said. “Your usual suite has been prepared just as you like it. I’m afraid Minnie is no longer with us, but we have a new young man who took her place. I’m certain you will find he is very well trained and he will take care of all your needs.”

Cerdic chuckled, replying, “To anyone overhearing you, one would think you were setting me up with someone from an escort service, not one of your excellent room service persons.”

“Oh my, yes, I suppose it did sound like that. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing to worry about. We know, and what others think is of small importance.”

After that, he finished with the business of signing in, paid her, and then with the bellhop in tow, went to his suite. It was just as the woman had promised, perfection with all as he expected. Once he had unpacked, he sat down in the wingchair in the living room and placed a call to room service to order a late supper. With that taken care of, he rose again, crossing to stand at the window and look out over the Thames. He was in his homeland now, and the only place forbidden to him was the town where he had died. That was the one law that both Caomhnóir and Scriostóir had in common. There was no return to the place of their demise. 

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'You Can't Change the Past - Phoenix Rising Book 3'

is now available from Silver Publishing.