hurried after the others, up the street and through the shadowed alley beside the church. When she popped out into the pedestrian polygon she saw them going into a fish and chips shop on the far side.
A hand seized her forearm and spun her around. She was face to face with the dark-haired traveler. “I've heard that Americans are always in a hurry,” he said.
"Hey!” Ashley wrenched her arm away.
"Sorry.” His grin cut dashing creases in his clean-shaven cheeks. The wind ruffled his mane of hair. He stepped back, holding his hands open and empty. “We've not been formally introduced. Nick Veliotes, at your service."
"Ashley Walraven. Not that I need any service.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the other students had disappeared. They probably never noticed her following them. Plenty of other people were walking back and forth, though, and Nick didn't seem particularly threatening.
"You're working at the old Roman fort, are you?” he asked.
"Yes. The dig is part of a history course I'm taking at the University of Manchester."
"You must be very clever, to have been accepted at university."
There wasn't the least trace of sarcasm in his voice. His golden-brown eyes were fixed on her face—only her face—as though he'd never encountered anyone so interesting. He had no preconceptions about her. She could be anything to him. Maybe he could be something to her.
"American universities are easier to get into than British ones,” she said. “I've really had to study since I've been here, believe me."
"I do believe you. You're not studying now that you're digging?"
"The digging is kind of like the final exam."
"So you're sitting your exams, are you? I can be of service, then, as a tutor in history and legend."
"You know history?” Ashley asked.
He laughed. “Oh yes, that I do."
Nick didn't fit what Gareth had said about the travelers—he was as well-spoken as the reporter himself. And he didn't smell bad, either. His slender body clad in nondescript army-surplus pants and sweater was boyish, but his manner was self-assured. Several necklaces dangled on his chest, an even-armed cross, a horn, a crescent moon. Ashley quelled the little voice in the back of her mind that told her in so many words why he was paying attention to her, and smiled her best sophisticated smile. “Okay, tell me about history."
"Right.” Nick gestured at the church. “St. Michael's. Fourteenth century, built on the foundations of an old Saxon church, built in turn on the foundations of a Celtic temple."
"I thought the Celtic temple was beneath the fort,” Ashley said.
"There was more than one here. This entire area is knit together with dragon lines, lines of power running in straight tracks across the country. We've lost a good bit of that old knowledge, mind you, though it can be found if you know where to look."
"Really? Matilda was saying something the other night about St. Michael and the dragon."
"Matilda?"
"Dr. Sweeney's second-in-command at the dig. She's American, too, but she knows an awful lot about British stuff."
"Ah,” said Nick, with a thoughtful nod. “There's a green man carved into one of the pews in the south aisle of the church. I'll show you."
Ashley found herself escorted through the churchyard with its ranks of weathered gravestones and into the musty interior of the building. Nick guided her from nave to transept to chancel, their steps ringing on the floor, pointing out paintings and carvings that, he said, had pagan subtexts. He spoke of the old spirits of wood and stone and water. He drew parallels between the mysteries of Greek Eleusis and Welsh Annwn. He spoke movingly on the meanings of the bull, the buck, and the horns of an altar until Ashley grew dizzy, with information overload and physical attraction both.
"The white horse,” he concluded as they turned from yet another shadowed recess, “is the goddess Rhiannon. Rhiannon, Keridwen, and Brighid are the three aspects of the Celtic
A hand seized her forearm and spun her around. She was face to face with the dark-haired traveler. “I've heard that Americans are always in a hurry,” he said.
"Hey!” Ashley wrenched her arm away.
"Sorry.” His grin cut dashing creases in his clean-shaven cheeks. The wind ruffled his mane of hair. He stepped back, holding his hands open and empty. “We've not been formally introduced. Nick Veliotes, at your service."
"Ashley Walraven. Not that I need any service.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the other students had disappeared. They probably never noticed her following them. Plenty of other people were walking back and forth, though, and Nick didn't seem particularly threatening.
"You're working at the old Roman fort, are you?” he asked.
"Yes. The dig is part of a history course I'm taking at the University of Manchester."
"You must be very clever, to have been accepted at university."
There wasn't the least trace of sarcasm in his voice. His golden-brown eyes were fixed on her face—only her face—as though he'd never encountered anyone so interesting. He had no preconceptions about her. She could be anything to him. Maybe he could be something to her.
"American universities are easier to get into than British ones,” she said. “I've really had to study since I've been here, believe me."
"I do believe you. You're not studying now that you're digging?"
"The digging is kind of like the final exam."
"So you're sitting your exams, are you? I can be of service, then, as a tutor in history and legend."
"You know history?” Ashley asked.
He laughed. “Oh yes, that I do."
Nick didn't fit what Gareth had said about the travelers—he was as well-spoken as the reporter himself. And he didn't smell bad, either. His slender body clad in nondescript army-surplus pants and sweater was boyish, but his manner was self-assured. Several necklaces dangled on his chest, an even-armed cross, a horn, a crescent moon. Ashley quelled the little voice in the back of her mind that told her in so many words why he was paying attention to her, and smiled her best sophisticated smile. “Okay, tell me about history."
"Right.” Nick gestured at the church. “St. Michael's. Fourteenth century, built on the foundations of an old Saxon church, built in turn on the foundations of a Celtic temple."
"I thought the Celtic temple was beneath the fort,” Ashley said.
"There was more than one here. This entire area is knit together with dragon lines, lines of power running in straight tracks across the country. We've lost a good bit of that old knowledge, mind you, though it can be found if you know where to look."
"Really? Matilda was saying something the other night about St. Michael and the dragon."
"Matilda?"
"Dr. Sweeney's second-in-command at the dig. She's American, too, but she knows an awful lot about British stuff."
"Ah,” said Nick, with a thoughtful nod. “There's a green man carved into one of the pews in the south aisle of the church. I'll show you."
Ashley found herself escorted through the churchyard with its ranks of weathered gravestones and into the musty interior of the building. Nick guided her from nave to transept to chancel, their steps ringing on the floor, pointing out paintings and carvings that, he said, had pagan subtexts. He spoke of the old spirits of wood and stone and water. He drew parallels between the mysteries of Greek Eleusis and Welsh Annwn. He spoke movingly on the meanings of the bull, the buck, and the horns of an altar until Ashley grew dizzy, with information overload and physical attraction both.
"The white horse,” he concluded as they turned from yet another shadowed recess, “is the goddess Rhiannon. Rhiannon, Keridwen, and Brighid are the three aspects of the Celtic
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