“They’re here…”

Annja felt the breeze that moved her ponytail from in front of her shoulder to her back.

Then she paused.

There was no breeze.

She must have moved, flipped her hair over her shoulder with a jerk of her head. It was the only thing that made sense. Until a strange flutter made her look down.

She didn’t know what was causing her sudden nervousness, or making her hear things.

It had to be an insect. It had sounded like that, like wings fluttering.

“Just a bug,” she whispered.

A male cry of pain alerted her. She heard a body hit the dirt and the clatter of the plastic-encased camera followed.

“Eric,” she whispered.

Footsteps crunched. Those were not Eric’s rubber-soled Vans.

Sucking in a deep breath, Annja calmed her racing heartbeat.

She swept out her right hand. Looking into the otherwhere, she opened her fingers and closed them around her battle sword.

Slapping her left hand to the hilt, she prepared to meet whatever was coming around the corner….

Titles in this series:

Destiny

Solomon’s Jar

The Spider Stone

The Chosen

Forbidden City

The Lost Scrolls

God of Thunder

Secret of the Slaves

Warrior Spirit

Serpent’s Kiss

Provenance

The Soul Stealer

Gabriel’s Horn

The Golden Elephant

Swordsman’s Legacy

Polar Quest

Eternal Journey

Sacrifice

Seeker’s Curse

Footprints

Paradox

The Spirit Banner

Sacred Ground

The Bone Conjurer

Tribal Ways

The Dragon’s Mark

Phantom Prospect

False Horizon

The Other Crowd

Rogue Angel™

The Other Crowd
Alex Archer

www.mirabooks.co.uk

The Legend

…THE ENGLISH COMMANDER TOOK JOAN’S SWORD AND RAISED IT HIGH.

The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.

Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.

Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn….

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

1

Her forged steel battle sword clanked against an iron-plated chest cuirass. The shock of connection had ceased to clatter up her arms and vibrate in her molars. Over the course of the day, she’d become physically numb to violence, to blood.

To her faith.

No, she still clung to faith, to blind trust and humble servitude. It was all she had.

A thunderous warrior’s cry from behind her prompted her to spin about. Slick mud made footing unsure. The soles of her laced leather boots had worn thin; she could gauge the rises and fall of earth with a mere flex of foot. She maintained balance.

With no time to deliver an overhand slash of her sword, she plunged it up into the charging soldier’s gut. The blade slid under her enemy’s bloodied leather cuirass. She felt the soft acceptance as the sword tip sunk into flesh. The soul had been pierced. May God have mercy.

Blood purled down the flat of the blade. Her victim’s triumphant cry changed to a gurgling requiem. A mace glinting with the blood of her fellow soldiers fell from his limp grasp. For a moment he loomed before her in the rain, arms spread, yet hands limp. Mouth open and eyes horrifically wide. Poised between life and death.

As a child she had enjoyed playing in the rain. The world would never again be so carefree.

A heel to his thigh pushed his body off balance. He dropped backward. Mud droplets spattered his face and her leg greaves.

Death proved far too easy.

The violet sky briefly teased at the corner of her eye where mud did not blemish her vision. Too pretty for battle. It promised an end to the abominable weather. A rainbow was swirled in an oily slick before the castle wall.

“Jeanne!”

The familiar voice cut through the cacophony of warfare. Lieutenant Charlier. Just last night his wife had birthed a baby boy who was not breathing. The lieutenant mourned as a black cloud had entered his life. The child had not been baptized before burial, which Jeanne had protested until her throat ached. Now the lieutenant signaled and she followed him. He did not see the English infantryman swinging a deadly halberd behind him.

“No!” She rushed across the battlefield, slick with blood and mud.

A body lay between her and the lieutenant. In the moment Jeanne took to look down and leap over the sprawled enemy corpse, the tip of the armor-piercing halberd poked out from the lieutenant’s chest. His arms flung backward as his torso curved unnaturally forward.

She swung madly, utilizing no martial skill save a fierce determination honed over the past months. Lieutenant Charlier was dead before his palms hit the ground.

Jeanne’s sword soughed the air. Impending death held an utterly voiceless tone, yet it sweetened the air as a bird’s wings during flight. Her blade connected with the head of the Englishman who had gutted the lieutenant. Because he wore no helmet, the top of his skull was shaved off just above the eyes.

Gulping a surge of acrid bile, Jeanne thrust ferociously following the backswing, but the counterattack wasn’t necessary. The man toppled at her feet, his dissected brain oozing out like fresh porridge.

Stumbling backward, metal slapped against metal. Caught by the shoulders, she slammed into an unmoving force. Unable to lift her sword, she struggled, but the man who held her against his armored chest was too strong.

“The Maid of Orléans,” he growled. “Does your faith allow forgiveness for murder? You claim power with your sword, vile wench. It is not your power to own. I’ve never killed a woman, but you are no female. You are a—”

Warm blood spattered her cheek. The man holding her suddenly fell away from her body. She didn’t look down and back, because she’d seen too much death. Another man charged at her with a sword to match hers.

The clank of opposing weapons stung her ears. The enemy was right. Who was she to claim power with a battle sword when violence only seemed to beget further violence? Was this truly the path she had intended? How could God command such destruction?

Following a guttural battle cry, a new opponent slashed his bloodied sword toward her. Scrambling to counterattack, her blade tip caught on the screw at her knee greave. She wouldn’t be able to deflect the blow. The blade would cut through her skull—

A TRILLING ALARM startled her upright on the bed. Slashing her arms out before her to deflect the blow, Annja Creed cried out, “No!”

When no armored soldier shouted back and she did not feel the agonizing slice of blade to skull, she realized she was sitting in her bed. No English solider stood before her. No mud, or shouts of vengeance, littered the scene. She could not even feel the sting of relentless rain.

The cell phone on her bedside dresser jingled.

She gasped.

The adrenaline rush of the dream did not dissipate. Breathing heavily, she clasped her chest. No wounds. No awkward armor to impede her movements. Not a slick of another’s man blood. But it had felt so real. As if she had stood amid the carnage to swing against the enemy.

It is not your power to own.

It was a strange statement she couldn’t resist pondering. What power? Had he meant the bloody, yet spiritual, quest that had seen Joan of Arc through countless battles all in the name of faith for her uncrowned king?

Had the people of the times known the Maid of Orléans carried a mystical sword?

Annja possessed that very sword—a sword that had once been wielded by Joan of Arc.

She startled again at the insistent ring, and this time slapped a palm on the cell phone and croaked out a sleep-laced, “Hello?”

“I know it’s early, but listen, Annja. I have an assignment for you. It’s a really cool segment for the show.” The voice on the line jabbered on, but Annja’s attention remained divided.

She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart still beat frantically. It pounded against her palm. She’d had some nasty nightmares about fire before, but not so much the Catholic saint. And never had a dream been so vivid. Almost as if she’d time traveled and acted out the scene herself. Did her forearms ache from swinging the sword as she traversed the muddy battlefield?

“Are you listening, Annja?”

“Yes, go on, Doug. Wait. Did you just say what I think you said?”

“I did.”

Annja caught her forehead against her palm. “Doug, I can’t believe you asked me to go to Ireland to track…”

She couldn’t say the word. Not without laughing. She’d taken on some crazy assignments for her television host job, but this latest suggestion was really out there.

“Faeries,” Doug Morrell, the producer of Chasing History’s Monsters, confirmed.

That’s what she thought he’d said.

“Annja, people have disappeared close to a County Cork village called Ballybeag. Rumors report that faeries are stealing them. It’s like the legends say when you go wandering on faerie territory, they don’t like it and will capture you and make you dance for a hundred years, or something like that. What was the name of that dude? Rip Van Winkle! Wait. He fell asleep—he wasn’t dancing.”

“Doug. Stop. Please.”

“Annja, I’m serious. The report comes from a trustworthy source. The Irish Times.”

Ireland’s leading newspaper reporting about make-believe creatures? Impossible. But then again, who knew? Faeries were big in Ireland. Or was that leprechauns?

Annja swiped a hand over her face, not wanting to wake up too much, because if she did she’d laugh herself right out of bed. “It was probably a puff piece, Doug. Did you find it in the Entertainment section? Go back to sleep. It’s too early.”

“I know it’s, like, six in the morning. But in Ireland it’s already lunchtime. Do you know they eat blood pudding there? Can you imagine? Anyway, real faeries have been reported kidnapping people. You have to fly to Ireland now. I’ve already booked the flight for you and the cameraman.”

Tapping the cell phone against her chin, Annja exhaled. This was no way to start the day, especially not after her creepy dream. What she needed was another two or three hours of sleep. Not that she hadn’t risen early countless times before and been ready for action, but she felt strangely unsettled.

“Doug, I have humiliated myself in more ways than a grown woman should have to endure. All for the sake of the show and its precious ratings.”

“And I appreciate your efforts, Annja, you know that. The lost mermaids of Wales episode rocked.”

“There were no tails on those women when we filmed them swimming in the ocean. Doug, I’m going to have to revoke your Photoshop license before the FCC catches on to your antics.”

“You’re kidding me. I thought the tails were realistic. I spent a small fortune on night classes learning how to create water effects.”

Annja blew out an annoyed breath. There were much better things to do on a too-new Thursday morning than argue with her producer about an assignment she wouldn’t be caught dead taking.

“Get Kristie to do it,” she said.

Kristie Chatham, the other host of Chasing History’s Monsters, would do anything as long as she was allowed to do it in skimpy clothing and suntan lotion was figured into travel expenses. Faeries seemed right up her alley.

“I have two tickets to Ireland in my hands, Annja. One for you, and one for the cameraman. I’ll meet you at JFK airport in an hour?”

“I don’t believe you heard my emphatic no,” Annja said.

Doug never actually connected other people’s lives with the fact they did not always sync with his own needs and desires. The kid was young, energetic, and while not exactly a buttoned-up businessman he had put Chasing History’s Monsters high in the ratings with his quirky style of infusing real history along with legend and myth and making it all somehow work.

Annja grudgingly gave him kudos for that.

“You don’t have to believe in faeries to go looking for them, Annja. Besides, when have you ever believed in any of the monsters the show has chased? Dracula? Come on!”

“Believe? Try harboring delusional fantasies,” she said. “I could buy into the legend of a Romanian prince killing myriads and spilling so much blood that he was considered a vampire. But little winged creatures? They’re fairy tales, Doug. Someone has been pulling your leg.”

“Not according to the Irish Times. There’s a piece about the disappearances in yesterday’s Features section. Three people have gone missing in two weeks, the last one just yesterday. Can you imagine how many ways the show would rock if you got footage of faeries?”

“Nope. Not going to happen. I’ll stick to Dracula and mermaids, thank you very much. Hell, I’ve even investigated the chupacabra for you, Doug. But seriously, I think you’ve been imbibing in too much faerie dust. The tiny critters exist only in kids’ movies and, obviously, Doug Morrell’s mind.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

She heard the sharp slap of what must have been his palm being slapped against the counter.

“I was saving this part in the event you refused me,” he announced tersely.

“What, you’re going to actually offer to pay my travel expenses this time? Doug, I’d love to visit Ireland. The country’s history gushes up like black gold under every footstep. But stumbling from stone circle to circle in search of magic faerie mushrooms is not my idea—”

“It’s on a dig!” he shouted.

Annja paused to recycle what he’d just said through her brain. The man cared little about her profession, and rarely showed interest in the real facts she worked into her hosting segments. She couldn’t have heard him right. “As in an archaeological dig?”

“What other kinds of digs are there?”

“When you’re the man behind the big white curtain, I’m not sure. Seriously, a dig?”

“Yep. Seems student volunteers have disappeared from a dig somewhere in County Cork. No trace of them wandering off or leaving the area. Just vanished. Poof! The locals—and the Irish Times—are convinced it’s faeries. As am I.”

Now he had her interest. Not in the sparkly flying things. Skeptic was her middle name. Annja was an archaeologist before TV show host any day. Yet if the opportunity to participate in—or even just hang around—a dig arose, she was so there.

“What’s the focus of the dig?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They supposedly found some kind of spear. A faerie spear.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t grumble, Annja, you know you want to do this. Your breathing is fast and I can picture you eyeing your hiking boots and boonie hat right now.”

“The only reason I’m breathing fast is—”

He didn’t need to know about her nightmare. Doug had no clue about her connection to Joan of Arc or that she wielded a mystical sword.

“One hour, and I’ll meet you at the airport with tickets in hand.”

“Deal.” She hung up and shook her head.

She didn’t care that she’d just accepted the joke assignment of the century. The opportunity to hang around a dig on Irish soil was not to be missed.

A YELLOW CAB DROPPED Annja off near the departures gate at Terminal 4. She’d packed light. A backpack with laptop and GPS, assorted survival gear and a small suitcase were all she needed. Thanks to both her careers—archaeologist and television host—she was never sure what kind of hotel or living arrangements waited her arrival, and was accustomed to sleeping under the stars—tent or no tent—if need be.

Doug stood on the sidewalk, beaming. His dark curly hair defied the existence of grooming products. Tall and gawky, his jeans hung low on his hips. Though he looked like he’d just jumped off the short bus in front of the high school gym, Annja knew he was just a little younger than her. Men always did come to maturity later than women. She just had to keep repeating that one whenever she spoke with Doug.

Beside Doug, a slender man with pale complexion and a shock of shoulder-length red hair sported an armload of camera equipment and a couple nylon bags slung over a shoulder. He was dressed for adventure in khakis and a long-sleeved shirt.

Annja nodded and received Doug’s shoulder-slap manhug. “Here’s your ticket,” he said. “I’ve already arranged for someone to meet you and drive you to Ballybeag. Thanks, Annja, this show is going to rock.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s this guy?” She cautioned the accusing tone of her voice. She had showered and thought to erase the sleep from her foggy brain, but maybe not so much. “Where’s Michael, the usual field cameraman?”

“Sick with strep. This is Eric Kritz.” Doug managed a high five with Eric, even though the redhead was loaded down with equipment. “He’s the new guy and a buddy of mine.”

A buddy of Doug’s? That meant he was young, self-involved and one step away from a frat-party bender, Annja thought.

Eric lunged forward with an enthusiastic handshake. Annja had to tug to get her hand back. “I’ve watched all the episodes of the show,” he said. “I’m a huge fan of yours, Miss Creed.”

“Thanks. You can call me Annja. How old are you?”

“Twenty.” He didn’t sound entirely sure of it, though the reply was practiced enough.

Annja swung a disbelieving look at Doug. “Are you serious? Sending me across the sea with a…” The word boy stuck on her tongue. Good thing, too. That was no way to start a working relationship. Hell, she just needed to sleep off the aftereffects of the strange dream. “Has he got any experience?”

Doug wrapped an arm around her shoulder and steered her a few paces away from the giddy cameraman. To their left, cabs zoomed by and intermittently deafened Annja. “Not much. But you have to start somewhere, right?”

“I can’t believe this. You’re sending me across the ocean with Doogie Spielberg? Doug, I’m in no mood to train a new guy. I don’t even know how all that camera stuff works. Does he?”

“He does. His father owns QueensMark studios out of Manhattan. They do independent films, documentaries and stuff. Eric has been following in his father’s footsteps since he could toddle. He’s very good with the camera. He knows the drill and accompanied his father on a stint last summer in Kenya. He’s enthusiastic, but more important, he likes you.”

Annja rolled her eyes.

“He can take care of himself. He’s a big boy.”

She glanced back at the guy, who looked like he belonged in the front row of a classroom dodging spitballs from the bully. Not even a shade of five-o’clock shadow.

“You owe me one for accepting this assignment,” she muttered.

“Duly noted. You go and do your job. Sleuth out the facts and bring home faerie footage. Like I said, I arranged for a buddy of mine who lives near the dig to meet you and be your guide.”

“Another buddy? How old is he? Twelve?”

“Annja.” Doug pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. “You wound me. All my twelve-year-old friends are tucked in with their Transformers blankies right now.” He winked.

Doug may appear erratic and selfish on the outside, Annja thought, but she could not ignore his savantlike work ethic that had made Chasing History’s Monsters a success.

“His name is Daniel Collins,” he explained. “He’s more a friend of Eric’s father. Eric spent a couple of weeks at his home a few summers ago during a business trip with his dad. I understand the man’s a laidback dude and you’ll get along with him, I’m sure. You get along with everyone, Annja.”

“Guides are good.” Of course, the country was small, about the size of Indiana, but a guide would free her to worry about the assignment.

Missing students. Mystery surrounding an archaeological dig. And…faeries.

Hey, she was a professional. She could handle any assignment Doug lobbed at her. As soon as she got a few more hours of sleep.

“You tell her about Daniel?” Eric asked as he joined them. “Daniel’s a bit of an eccentric,” he said to Annja, “but more normal than any other person on earth. Trust me on that one. But whatever you do, don’t get him talking about wine unless you’ve got hours to spare. The man is really into wine.”

“I can dig it.” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her cargo pants and eyed Eric. Eager puppy dog waiting for a bone.

“Annja, this story is going to rock!” Doug said.

Her producer’s enthusiasm wasn’t capable of lifting even a hint of a smile on her face. Assessing her tense muscles and stiff posture, she realized she was anxious. Not only was she voluntarily traveling three thousand miles to chase after Tinkerbell, now she’d acquired puppy-sitting duties, as well.

“First sign of trouble, I’m sending him home,” she said as she snatched the tickets from Doug’s hands and strode into the airport through the sliding glass doors.

2

His cell phone volume was turned off, yet he’d set it to flash with an incoming call. Garin Braden leaned across the black silk sheets and eyed the caller ID. A familiar, yet unwelcome, name was displayed. He groaned and sat back. A flute of champagne was cradled in his hand, and he ran his fingers through the long blond hair that spilled over his bare chest.

“No bubbly for you?” he asked.

“I’ll be up in a bit,” she said in a husky drawl seasoned with just the right touch of determination. Her head disappeared beneath the sheets.

The red flashing LED had ceased and now the phone vibrated across the marble nightstand. That indicated someone was leaving a message. He didn’t want to talk to the old man at this particular moment.

Slamming back the champagne, Garin set the glass on the nightstand next to the phone that began to blink red again. “Give it up, old man.”

Another message vibrated the cell phone dangerously close to the edge of the nightstand. Just when the phone teetered and threatened to drop to the marble floor, it flashed and Garin snatched it and flipped it open.

“What?” he growled. “This had better be good, Roux.”

“It’ll surely be more stimulating than whatever it is you’re engaged in right now.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Garin said, gazing at his companion.

“Mental stimulation oftentimes exceeds that of the physical.”

“Doubt it. Why the call? I haven’t heard from you in months.”

“The Fouquet has resurfaced. Thought you’d want to know about it.”

“I’m not particularly concerned about ever seeing that thing again. Too many bad memories. A painting. Is that all?” He clutched the sheets. What the hell was the blonde’s name?

“It’s being auctioned off at Christie’s in New York this afternoon. I want you there. Buy it.”

Garin laughed. The blonde popped her head out from under the sheets and grinned at him. He gestured for her to roll to the side. Roux had spoiled the mood.

“I’m not interested in putting that thing on my wall,” Garin snapped. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and leaned forward. “Ever.”

“It’s not for you or myself,” Roux explained with castigating patience. “I thought it would make a nice gift for our Annja.”

Our Annja. It always startled Garin when Roux referred to her in that manner. It was too possessive.

“Why?”

“Garin, there are more things in life than fast cars, million-dollar acquisitions and women. You know what month it is?”

“I’m not keen on the late-night quiz show, old man. I’ll have you know I was engaged in something far better—”

“Blonde or redhead?”

“Blonde.”

“Common. There’s always another one around the corner.”

True. Garin turned and cast a wink over his shoulder at the pouting female. She got up and lazily wandered into the bathroom. “Why don’t you simply call in your bid?” he asked.

“I want you to look at the thing before bidding. I can’t be sure this is the actual painting. It’s merely attributed to Fouquet and listed as ‘in the style of the fifteenth century master.’”

“So why don’t you go after the bloody thing?”

“Because you’re closer.”

“Closer? I’m in Berlin, Roux. And let me guess—you’re in…Monaco, reclining under the moonlight on the roof of the yacht surrounded by a blonde, a redhead and a brunette.”

“You don’t get points for being obvious.”

“Technically, you’re closer to New York. You go after the thing.”

“At the moment, I’m not near any major airport. And there is a time issue. I found out about this just moments ago. And I know you have a collection of private jets and planes and, who knows, maybe even a submarine or two.”

“Sold the sub last month.”

“I hope it wasn’t to the enemy.”

“Your definition of enemy is vastly different from mine, old man.”

Roux huffed out a breath. Garin loved to tweak at his presumed morals. “No matter. You can get there faster than I, Garin. So you’ll do it?”

Garin sighed and shrugged, rubbing a palm over his face. “For Annja?”

“Indeed.”

“Fine. Send details, an address and get me set up with a bid number so all I have to do is stroll in and take the thing.”

“Done.”

3

Rangy and easy in his skin, Daniel Collins was, from outer appearances, quite the character. Long skinny jeans clung to his legs as if glued to the skin. The pants certainly didn’t require the white suspenders that hung loosely over a black shirt decorated with gold appliqués across the chest. A red-and-black plaid coat, the sleeves rolled to expose his veiny forearms, hung on his lithe frame. Gold hoop earrings clung to both earlobes and were small enough not to be garish, but added an interesting glint to his narrow face, which was mastered by bushy black brows.

A black fedora capped his head, and he tilted it to Annja as she approached to shake his hand.

“You must be the television host Mr. Morrell asked me to drop everything to come and fetch.”

“Sorry about that. Doug tends to think the world moves on his time. So I assume you’re as surprised about this assignment as I am?”

“Surprised, but willing. It’s not every day I’m given the opportunity to show a lovely American lady around my neck of the woods.” He looked beyond Annja. “Eric?”

“You remember Eric Kritz. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said.

Eric looked up from his iPod long enough to nod at Daniel. He didn’t have the earbuds in. He’d explained to Annja during the flight that he used the music player as a backup hard drive to store still photographs. He must be paging through the aerial photos he’d taken from the plane as they’d landed she thought.

“You’re all grown up, Mr. Kritz,” Daniel said in acknowledgment. “So, the two of you, have you got some ID so I can be sure you are who you say you are?”

Taken aback by that request, Annja laughed. She was often introduced and accepted merely for her fame and the fact she was associated with the TV show. But a wise man should ask for ID.

She tugged her passport out from her backpack and flashed it for him. “I don’t have ID from the show. But I am who I say I am.”

Eric did have press credentials for Chasing History’s Monsters, which he flashed. How he managed a press pass—and she had never been given one—was something Annja intended to discuss with Doug when she returned to the States.

Eric shuffled around in his duffel bag and pulled out a small cigar box. “Mr. Collins,” he said, “a gift from my father.” He handed over the box.

Daniel sniffed the box, his eyes closing briefly in olfactory satisfaction. “Cigars. Thanks to your father, boy. I do love a Montecristo.”

“Inspired by Dumas’s story,” Annja tossed out. She was an Alexandre Dumas fan.

“Indeed. The Count of Monte Cristo. A fine story, if not a wee bit far-fetched.” With a wink to her, Daniel tucked the box under an arm without opening it to inspect. He gestured that they follow him to the parking lot outside the airport terminal.

“Doug said you know the dig director and can get us clearance to film on-site?” Annja asked.

“Already done. His name is Wesley Pierce and he expects you. Let’s hop in the Jeep and get you settled first. There’s a cozy little B and B a few jogs from the dig site at the edge of Ballybeag, and I know the proprietress, Mrs. Riley. Already told her you’d be needing rooms.” He winced, noting Eric’s general disinterest. “Be sure and take advantage of the breakfast every morning, but with a warning to avoid the black pudding.”

“Avoid the black pudding,” Annja affirmed as she climbed into the passenger seat of the Jeep. Eric shuffled his equipment into the back and scrambled in. “Would it be all right if we head straight to the dig? After the flight delays and layovers it’s late afternoon and I’d hate to lose a day. I want to take a look around, familiarize myself with the area. I may find an opportunity to talk to someone who knew those who disappeared.”

“Doug was right about you being focused,” Daniel said. “To the dig it is.”

Once out of city limits, the regional roads in County Cork—all of Ireland, for that matter—weren’t so much roads as pathways carved out of necessity for getting from one place to the other. They weren’t well marked, and if so, Annja noticed, the signs sometimes displayed kilometers, and other times mileage—on the same road.

“You have to learn the county quirks,” Daniel commented when Annja remarked about the mileage markers. “I’ve decided it’s always best to go by kilometers. But no matter which method of measure you choose, you’ll always end up somewhere, sooner or later.”

“Somewhere is a better place to be than nowhere at all,” Annja agreed. The open-topped Jeep sucked in the country smells as they traversed the rugged road. She tilted her head against the seat and took it all in.

“You feel like you’re home?” Daniel asked Eric after they’d been driving awhile.

“Huh?”

“I mean your heritage.”

Eric wielded a mini-DV video camera, sweeping it across the horizon.

“Come to recall a conversation with your father,” Daniel mused, “I think his pa’s grandfather was from around this neighborhood somewhere.”

“Cool,” Eric said.

Annja caught Daniel’s eye. He clearly wasn’t impressed with Eric. She had to give the kid credit, though. He was filming, and she liked his focus.

Ireland did take the prize for being green. Though a dusting of fog hung low above the ground, the rolling fields were coated with what looked like tightly packed moss, though she knew it was wild grass. Dark green shrubs pocked the perfect quilt of emerald here and there.

“Is that gorse?” Annja asked of the shrubs spotted with golden blooms.

“When gorse is in flower, kissing is in fashion,” Daniel replied. “Or so they say.” Again he winked at her, and resumed his attention to the road.

A row of pine trees lined a field where livestock grazed. The cattle were hearty and looked like something out of an old English cottage painting. There were even a couple of sheep.

They careened around a sharp curve that hugged what Annja knew was a rath, a small hill that locals would be keen to avoid because they believed faeries lived beneath the hill.

She had brushed up on the local mythology during the flight. It wasn’t in her to resist any kind of mystery, and if that entailed learning more about the history of the land, then she was all for that.

Faeries were definitely integrated into the Irish culture.

“Hang on!”

At Daniel’s shout, Annja gripped the handhold above her head and was crushed up against the steel door. A fast-moving white truck barreled toward them. Daniel swerved sharply to the right. The Jeep slid sideways over the rough gravel, the tires clambering for hold.

Thick spumes of road dirt clouded over the open-topped Jeep. From the backseat, Eric cursed and coughed. Annja tucked her face into her elbow but she still inhaled a hearty dose of dust.

“The devil take those lousy bastards!” Daniel gunned the accelerator and managed a remarkable venture over what looked like moss-covered boulders edging the road.

Through the foggy mire, Annja spied something small and white. “Sheep!”

The Jeep veered sharply left. Eric clung to the roll bar and swore.

“Missed the poor bloke,” Daniel announced with cheer. “Won’t be dining on chops tonight!”

Clinging to the door frame so she wouldn’t be bounced out of the car, Annja called back to see if Eric was all right.

“And the equipment?” she hollered after his affirmative grunt.

“Full of dust, but fine.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Daniel’s grin met Annja’s worried glance. She offered him a sheepish smile. The Jeep navigated the road in the wake of the truck that had blown by with so little regard. “The bastards in the new camp have all sorts of macho equipment they’re driving back and forth all times of day and night. They’ve no respect for the land, that’s for sure. Fashes me, it does.”

“The new camp? I thought this was a single dig? Isn’t it just a simple artifact find?” Annja asked.

“Right. Farmer found a spearhead when he was cutting turf on a dried-up blanket bog. NewWorld, the managing outfit, sent in a team to investigate. That team is headed by Mr. Pierce. When Neville took over financing the dig, he split it into two camps to get twice as much work done.”

“NewWorld is the company overseeing the dig?”

“Far as I know. Unless Neville has taken the reins and holds sway over the entire operation.”

“Who’s Neville? I’ve never heard of a private citizen taking over a dig from a management company. Unless he’s with another overseeing outfit?” Annja asked.

“Nope, Neville’s private. He’s…” Daniel shifted gears and didn’t say any more.

Annja suspected he was leery, which struck her as odd. What did he know that he wasn’t willing to say?

After a strained silence, Daniel spoke. “He’s a very powerful man, let’s leave it at that. He’s seen something he wants. Now he’s going to get it.”

A dig separated into two camps was unusual. It was financially prohibitive to operate two complete camps. And Annja knew a management corporation always oversaw any dig operated on Irish soil. No private citizen could simply decide to dig for treasure. It just wasn’t done. Annja knew, for a fact, that the average citizen couldn’t even buy a metal detector in this country. A person had to have a permit, and had to be either an archaeologist or an ordnance surveyor.

This Neville guy must be very powerful. But what did he hope to find on a routine dig that had only turned up a spear shard?

“You work on the dig?” she asked Daniel.

“Nope. I’m not a bone kicker. Just stop in every once in a while to chat with friends. It’s close to my house.” He pointed north and Annja spied a small thatch-roofed stone house across the field. “That’s me mum’s home. I’m a half mile beyond but you can’t see for the hill. The dig site is ahead.”

“Time to film some faeries,” Eric said enthusiastically from the backseat.

Annja rolled her eyes, but noticed Daniel’s lifted brow at her reaction. She was perfectly willing to allow the older villagers and those born and raised in the country their belief in a folk superstition. Folk tales and myth had been bred into them.

But Daniel Collins seemed an educated, modern man. Not one to be placing a bowl of cream out on his back porch at night.

4

“Looks like the rain is going to stay away today.” Daniel pulled onto a gravel road edged every twenty feet by head-size boulders. It led to the dig site. “You’re in luck.”

“The luck of the Irish, eh?” Eric intoned from the backseat.

“Don’t try the leprechaun accent, kid,” Daniel said. “It’ll only get you in trouble around here.”

“Sorry.”

Annja offered Eric a conciliatory smile from over her shoulder.

They rambled over rough pot-holed gravel and dirt tufted with grass. It wasn’t a real road, but had obviously been worn down by the trucks like the one that had run them off the road earlier. Where the truck had come from was a mystery. And though she only got a brief look at it, she could swear it was armored because the windows were narrower than usual.

The field was a compact area, perhaps a half mile long, bookended by a forest on one side and an electric fence on the other, which Annja assumed kept in cattle or sheep, though she didn’t spot any four-legged creatures at the moment.

“Is that the farmer’s land beyond the fence?” she asked.

“Yes. The dig sits on the river’s edge, a bit over half a mile from the shore. The forest separates the two.”

The fog had receded but the sky was still gray. Annja spotted eager students at work in the dirt thanks to a tarp canopy erected overhead should foul weather decide to break.

Annja scanned the grounds, excitement brewing. She forced herself not to grip the door handle and run out and start mucking about in the dirt. It didn’t matter what they were digging for, she wanted to get her hands in the mix. It had been too many months since she’d been involved on a real dig. Sometimes breathing dirt all day was better than sex.

“The Bandon River is a jog to the west beyond the trees,” Daniel noted. “We get some boats, private yachts and the occasional lost barge up the way. Great for fly-fishing.”

“Really? And I left my fishing rod at home,” Annja replied.

“I can hook you up if you’re interested in snagging a salmon or two.”

“We’ll see if I have a spare moment. I’d love to learn to fly-fish.”

Daniel’s attention averted sharply. “What the bloody—?”

The Jeep squealed to a stop and Eric groaned. The kid was juggling camera equipment to save it from breaking. He wore a sheen of dust from their near-miss with the truck, but it managed to give his face some color.

“A fight?” Daniel shoved open the driver’s door.

Annja pinpointed the scuffle fifty yards ahead, just outside a staked canvas tent. It wasn’t a friendly disagreement with shaken fingers and vitriolic words. Fists were flying.

Daniel leaped out from behind the wheel and raced across the muddy grounds.

“Is he going to join in?” Eric said with so much disbelief Annja had to smile. “Appears so.”

“Cool.” Aiming his video camera at the scuffle, Eric began filming. “What could they possibly be fighting over on a dig? I mean, this place is boring central. People poking about in the dirt with dental picks?”

They did use dental picks for the finer, detail work. And what was so wrong with that? Annja wondered.

Turning the other cheek to the boy’s ignorance, Annja stepped out from the Jeep. “I’m going to check it out. Stay out of everyone’s way, but…keep filming.”

Much as she didn’t approve of the macho posturing, if there was tension between the two camps, as a reporter, she was interested. As an archaeologist, she never overlooked the details. If people were disappearing into thin air, then exposing the differences and arguments between the two camps could be key in learning the truth behind it all.

A crew of six men dressed in cargo pants and T-shirts—standard dig gear—surrounded two struggling men. A tall, sun-bronzed dark-haired man with dusty khakis and no shirt delivered a punch that sent the other black-haired bruiser sprawling into Daniel’s arms.

Daniel shoved the fallen man aside and went at the dark-haired one full force. He wasn’t necessarily trying to stop the violence. In fact, he assumed the other’s position and now pummeled the shirtless one in the gut. The man’s abs were well defined, and he took the punches with a grinning challenge and gestured with his fingers to deliver more punishment.

“Boys,” Annja muttered, and then smiled despite herself.

The one who’d been shoved aside snorted blood and spat as he assumed a bouncing, fighting stance. He wore black khakis and military boots. His black hair was shaved to stubble. Swinging, he lunged for the pair and rejoined the scuffle. All three went down in the wet soil that had once been grassy, but now was being shaved bare by kicking, sliding boots. None seemed to have the upper hand, and if they did, it was quickly lost to another.

The men standing around watching the fight pumped their fists and urged on their man. A few women in T-shirts and shorts, and scarves to tie back their hair, lingered away from the fight near the marked dig. Their interest was more worried than keen.

Hands to hips, Annja wondered how long they’d go at it before someone got seriously hurt. Could be a means to blow off some steam after a long day spent hunched over and digging for nothing more than worthless pot shards. But this was no way to act on a dig. Archaeologists enjoyed a good workout and were not slouches. But they preferred to use their brains not their fists. At least, the ones Annja had worked with followed such moral compasses.

Did she need to whip out her sword and show them who was boss?

Annja crossed her arms firmly, biting her lip. Wouldn’t go over too well, and she realized the fight was probably more a means to let off aggression, and if denied that, the men would stew and simmer—over what she intended to find out.

She was surprised at Daniel’s eagerness to join the fray. He’d come off as laidback and good-natured. Though he had shouted at the truck that had almost run them off the road. But who wouldn’t have?

Could the stereotypical belief about the Irish temper hold truth? It was looking pretty plausible.

Someone must have found something valuable. That was Annja’s only guess as to the source of their rage. If one camp found something of value, who then did it ultimately belong to?

Then again, she didn’t notice any find tables or black rubber buckets with bits and shards of pottery. Must be inside the canvas tent.

The dig was flat and bare and surprisingly clean of spoil dirt. The turf had been cleared away from a forty-by-forty-foot section beside the tent. The second camp was about two hundred yards to the north just over a ridge that was too high to be one of the infamous potato ridges still remarkable from the nineteenth century. It was far enough away so one couldn’t shout back and actually hear what had been said, but close enough for curiosity.

Beyond the ridge she spied a truck, similar to the vehicle that had almost driven them off the road. It looked like a delivery truck, though. She figured it must contain supplies or could even function as a mobile office for the dig director.

The situation was odd. Digs didn’t split up like this unless they were large and initial investigation proved a major feature had been uncovered like an entire castle wall or even a village.

If they’d only uncovered a spearhead, Annja couldn’t imagine why the split. Unless artifacts had been sighted in both locations. Still, it would be difficult to get permission from the county for such a large operation.

A jawbone cracked. A male groan was followed by a litany of Irish oaths and promises to do something nasty to the other guy’s mother.

“All right, boys.” Annja stepped close enough to feel the wind of one of their punches. “Fun and games is done. Time to get back to work.”

“You heard the lady,” Daniel growled from his position, bent over one man and clasping him about the waist, while the other twisted his leg to topple the threesome. “Feck!”

The dark-haired man was the first to pop up from the tangle. Hopping from foot to foot, his fists ready for a defensive swing, he smiled a million-dollar blast of white that made Annja do a double take. Relinquishing his fight stance, he smoothed a palm over his muddied abs and gave her the once-over. A preening look. She straightened her shoulders.

The man was not ugly at all. Sometimes her assignments really were easy on the eyes. And she hadn’t bothered to check the mirror after arriving at the airport. Her face must be coated with road dirt like Eric’s.

“A lady stepping up to the fight?” he volleyed at her. “Fancy a tussle with the boys, then?”

“That was a tussle?” She lifted a brow, noting the scrape on his shoulder. “Was the bloodshed worth it? What were you fighting about?”

The other guy, whose lip was cracked and bleeding, struggled from Daniel’s grip, shook himself off and puffed up his chest. He wore a dark blue muscle shirt streaked with dirt. “Ma’am.”

He’d apparently taken a clue from the dark-haired man and didn’t want to be shown up in manners. Annja discreetly rubbed a hand along her cheek. A fine sheen of dirt smudged her fingers.

“It’s Annja,” she offered, holding out a hand to shake, and receiving a slap of mud-caked sweaty palm. “Annja Creed.”

“Annja’s here to do a shoot for her television program,” Daniel offered with a swipe of his palm across his sweaty hair. Retrieving his hat from the mud, he placed it on his head and gave it a pat. A chunk of dirt landed his shoulder.

“Absolutely not,” the militant one spat out.

“Cool your jets, Slater,” the brunette said. “Let’s offer Miss Creed our nicest welcome before you start slinging mud at her.”

“If I’d known the welcoming committee was going to get rough, I’d have worn my armor,” Annja joked.

Then she recalled the nightmarish dream. Fighting in mud? The dream had nothing to do with this situation. Couldn’t have. She offered a hand to the dark-haired man, who shook it and held it a little longer than usual.

“Wesley Pierce,” he offered. “Director of this camp. You going to put us on the television? Be sure to get my good side, will you?” He turned and offered a beaming smile, face coated with mud.

“This is Michael Slater,” Daniel introduced the other, who eased a hand aside his jaw. Annja noticed the empty gun holster strapped under his left arm.

Slater spat to the side and nodded to her. “No filming on location.”

“Nice to meet you both,” she replied. “And don’t worry, it’s just a segment for a show on monsters.”

Slater looked her up and down. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Anger vibrated off him like heat waves in the desert. “Monsters?”

She shrugged. “Faeries, actually.”

Slater smirked and disregarded her by turning and slapping the mud from his black khakis.

“You need to sit down,” Annja said to Wesley.

She assumed responsibility since it was sorely lacking, and directed Wesley to a bench outside the dig area that was cordoned off with rope and pitons.

“Wanker,” she heard Slater mutter. Obviously directed at Wesley. He slapped Daniel across the back. “Good to see you, mate.”

She had thought Daniel wasn’t an archaeologist, but he seemed to know most in the camp as he waved to some and slapped palms with others. What did the man do? Spend his days visiting the site? Did he have a job? Doug had mentioned he was some sort of collector. And he obviously liked his cigars.

“A friend of yours?” she asked, bending before Wesley Pierce to inspect his damaged shoulder. He sat on an overturned plastic bucket, knees spread and shaking his arms out at his sides to simmer down.

He shook his head. He was obviously in pain, and she didn’t want to touch him, or make him appear weak in front his friends for needing attention from a woman, but…

“Your lip is cracked.”

“It’ll heal,” he muttered in tones heavily creamed with an Irish accent. “Bloody Slater. Bastard is walking around with a pistol strapped at his side.”

“Is that why you two were fighting? Why the need for weapons at a dig site?”

“Exactly,” he said, and flinched.

One of the women arrived with a small plastic tub of clean water and a towel, which Annja took and dabbed at Wesley’s face. The cut on his shoulder was merely an abrasion.

“Why don’t you tell everyone to clean up their loose,” Wesley said to the woman. “Day’s shot as it is. Might as well head out.” The girl nodded.

“Sorry. Can I do this for you?” Annja asked, holding the towel before him. “Or would you prefer I not?”

“Go ahead. If I get the attention of the prettiest lady on the lot, I’m all for that.” He spat to the side and flashed the bird toward Slater’s retreating back. “No bloody guns!” he shouted.

Slater dismissed his theatrics with a return flick of the bird.

“Not even for security?” she asked.

Security was not uncommon on a dig, Annja knew, but it usually consisted of a hired guard or a camera set up to keep an eye on possible theft. That was if valued artifacts had been discovered, such as gold, jewels or even centuries-old bones.

“You must have found something important,” she tossed out, but Wesley continued to fume, his eyes following Slater’s departure to the other camp, flanked by a couple of his own people.

“Ever since Neville took over financing the dig this kind of shite has been happening on a daily basis. First, it’s splitting up the camps and shoving us over here away from the peat bog, then it’s sending over spies to snoop out what we’ve found. Like they didn’t think to simply ask? And today it’s the gun. Don’t let him intimidate you, though. He’ll try to kick you off his site. He got rid of the BBC yesterday.”

“Really? Then I don’t think our little show stands a chance if the BBC isn’t allowed on-site.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for you. Besides, you’re much prettier than the BBC reporter. He acted like he had a stick up his arse when Slater accused him of sensationalizing the remains of the dead. Ha!”

Eric clattered up with camera equipment hanging from his hip belt. A mesh backpack dangled over one shoulder, a few cords poking out. He twisted at the waist, the video camera recording the surroundings.

“The dig site located two kilometers west of the R605,” he narrated into his mic. “Go ahead, Annja, take up my narration. You know more about the landscape than I do. Describe some of this stuff. It’s all so cool.”

“Eric Kritz, Wesley Pierce. He’s my cameraman,” Annja said. She dipped the towel in the water, and sat beside Wesley on another bucket. “Not right now, Eric. Go scan the work site. Over where the earth is marked off and you see that big hole?”

“Okay. Whatever you say, Miss Creed.” He ambled off.

“Don’t step inside the ropes!” she yelled at him.

“He’s never done this before?” Wesley asked.

“Not on a dig. But he’s got to learn sometime, right?”

“You’re not like the other television shows. They come in with lights flashing, scripts girls fluttering their wares and makeup ladies wielding powder-laden brushes.”

Annja knew of at least two BBC shows that dealt with history and archaeological digs. “We’re American, not British. Our focus is more on…myths and legends.”

“That’s an interesting twist. How did an American show sniff out this dig, if I can ask?”

“My producer read the Irish Times.” Which, now that Annja thought about it, couldn’t possibly be true. Doug reading the Irish Times? He must have been surfing the Net and got lost when trying to drum up information on Irish stout. “Anyway, he learned that people have been disappearing from the dig.”

“Three so far. Two men and then Beth Gwillym just yesterday morning. I’m glad Slater chased off the BBC because this is a small, personal situation. The presence of paparazzi is only going to aggravate the brewing tension. I expect utmost respect from you and your cameraman, or it’s out of here for the both of you.”

“I promise it. I’m sure the families will appreciate a low-key investigation until the truth comes out.”

“It’s a sad, strange thing.”

“Are you sure the missing people didn’t just wander off?”

“To where? Look around you, Annja. There’s the river right there beyond the trees, and a vast stretch of land to all three sides. Not many places to wander and get lost. Sooner you’ll wander right into a pub in Ballybeag, the only village in County Cork that features four corners of pubs.”

Impressive, but not relevant at the moment, Annja thought.

“What about that forest? It doesn’t look very dense.”

“It’s more a copse than a forest. You can walk through it in ten minutes and drop directly into the river if you’re not paying attention. A man’s to be careful of the tides—they’ll sweep you downriver faster than you can holler your last words. Besides, I walked through those woods after each disappearance. Nothing but underbrush and magic mushrooms in there.”

“Magic mushrooms?”

“You have to know which ones are the right ones because the wrong one will kill you.”

“You indulge in mushroom-eating often?”

“Not a once. Though some of the ladies were giggling mightily the other night on the way to the pub after-hours. I had to wonder if their noontime gambol through the woods had netted more than just a few ticks.”

He smirked and took the wet cloth from her to press against his bare shoulder. “So you’ve come all the way from America to investigate? Doesn’t feel right.”

“I’m not here on an official policelike means. We reporters go anywhere the stories are, most especially on our show.” A show that chased monsters like Frankenstein and Dracula and the bat boy. “Have the authorities done a search?”

“Sure, the gardai took a look about. They’re a couple of good blokes. Took names and asked all the right questions, but what can they do when people disappear into thin air?”

“Thin air is a remarkable statement. Did anyone actually see them disappear?”

“Nope, happened at night.”

“At night? You work at night?”

“No, we head for the village come suppertime, which is right about now. Though some stay until the sun sets. Night is when ‘the other crowd’ most likely will come out.”

Annja winced. Seriously? Did grown men believe that tiny people with wings existed? Though her research told that the faeries of Ireland were originally human-size. It wasn’t until they’d been defeated by mortal warriors that they’d glamorized their shapes smaller and retreated underground for safety.

If a person bought into the whole faerie thing.

Wesley licked his cracked, swollen lip. Stubble lined his jaw and upper lip. A young female in tight T-shirt and shorts wandered up and offered him a pair of black-rimmed sunglasses, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, “And I won’t elaborate, because you won’t believe it. You’ll have to learn for yourself.”

She appreciated his respect for her skepticism. But that she didn’t detect a hint of tease in his tone troubled her.

“So have all three disappeared from your dig?” she asked. “Not the other?”

“One from our camp, two from the enemy camp.”

That was interesting. And it almost ruled out dirty dealings from the other camp. If they’d had two disappear.

“The enemy camp, eh?”

“I know it’s not subtle, but ‘camp one’ or ‘two’ is mundane.”

“Michael Slater must be the director of that one,” Annja said. Wesley nodded. “He doesn’t strike me as an archaeologist,” she said.

“He’s not. Can’t be. Hell, I have no clue what he is, but I haven’t seen him lift a trowel yet. He just paces their stretch of bog, eyes keen to his surroundings.”

“So you two don’t get along? Aren’t you both working toward the same end?”

“I thought so. But I’m not so sure anymore. The bloke won’t provide any information on what they find, nor will they allow my people to cross that imaginary line they’ve drawn in the grass.”

“What is the end goal? My producer mentioned something about a spear shard. Doesn’t seem like much to go on. Certainly no reason to stretch out the dig into two separate camps. What time period are you dealing with?”

“The spear shard is only seventeenth or eighteenth century. I haven’t had it radiocarbon-dated yet, but it’s a good guess. Initial excitement spread rumors that it was the spear of Lugh,” Wesley said. “I think it was the farmer whose land we’re squatting on was responsible for that. Legend says Lugh’s spear is one of four gifts the goddess Danu granted the Tuatha Dé Danaan. The spear always makes a kill when thrown, and returns to the thrower’s hand. If it doesn’t find its target, it kills the thrower.”

“Not something I’d ever want to test.”

“Come on, Annja, where’s your sense of adventure? I know you’ve got it. You’re the real thing, aren’t you? You like to dig for the truth.”

“And what is the truth here?”

“Nothing spectacular. Like I said, the shard is only a few centuries old, and was found too near the surface. Since arriving three weeks ago, we’ve only uncovered some tin pieces and pottery shards that date to the nineteenth century. I’m going to have the soil tested. There was a lot going on in Ireland mid-nineteenth century.”

“You mean the potato famine?”

“Indeed. I think we’ve uncovered a homestead from the period. Well, there was an obvious stone wall jutting about a foot out of the earth. The farmer had been dismantling it over the years, using the stones to plug up holes in his yard dug by a dog. No bodies, though, which is either a damned blessing or a strange misnomer. Lots of people perished during the famine. Unless this homestead was abandoned, I’d expect to find bones.”

“Could have been buried in a mass grave closer to a village,” Annja said.

“True.”

“Why the secrecy from the other camp?” Annja asked. “And what prompted the other camp at all? Daniel said it’s been a few weeks since the split?”

“Like I said, Neville has taken over the reins from my employer, NewWorld. I haven’t received any information from them since about a week after my arrival. And I have called and left messages.”

“NewWorld being the overseeing company?”

“It’s a relatively new outfit. I think they’re getting their bearings. That’s why it was so easy for Neville to sneak in. And Slater treats me as if he has to tolerate my presence.”

“So officially you’re working for whom?”

“NewWorld.”

“So the digs are managed by two separate companies?”

“Far as I know. Haven’t a clue what Neville’s outfit is called.”

“That’s out of the ordinary. You know this Neville guy?”

“Frank Neville. Never met him, and don’t think I want to. I’m just here to do a job and report my findings. So long as Slater keeps his gun in the holster we’ll all be fine.”

“He was waving it around? He wasn’t wearing it just now.”

“Handed it to a buddy before we got in the scuffle. He was shooting coots. Idiot. It scared the women on my crew something fierce. This job doesn’t pay well, as you should know. It’s not worth the angst of having to endure a loose cannon.”

“It certainly isn’t. You have any theories on the disappearances beyond…well…?” Faeries.

“Nope. Haven’t had time to think about it much. I know that sounds callous. I’m losing crew and I don’t know how much longer before Slater scares them all off. Someone goes missing, or decides this work isn’t for them, and leaves without warning, I just gotta let it go.”

“You think any of the three wandered off because they didn’t like the work?”

“Possible.”

“What were the two men’s names?”

“Brian Ford, he was from Kansas. I’ve worked on a dig previously with him in Africa. He’s a curious sort, but easily distracted. If he hooked up with a looker one night in Cork, well, yes, he could have just wandered off without notice. The other guy is Richard something-or-other. Didn’t know him. He joined us the day the camps split and ended up on the enemy side, so I didn’t get to know him at all.”

“Did you ask around Ballybeag for Brian?”

“Annja, I said I’ve been busy.”

His lack of concern disturbed her. Had he reneged all responsibility for his crew when the sites had split? He didn’t seem like a man to do so. And could frustration be a reason for lack of interest? Doubtful.

If Wesley had something to do with the disappearances he would be less concerned than if he had not, she thought.

“I’ll want to poke about the other camp, as well.”

“I’d watch your back around Slater. He’s tough, coiled tight as a spring. He’s no bone kicker. Looks like some kind of corporate thug hired to keep the lessers in line, if you ask me. I don’t like him one bit.”

“So he was the one to physically ensure the camps split?”

“Yep, packed our tent and supplies up one night. Next morning we arrive over at the bog, only to find our stuff sitting over here. Thinks he’s going to get to the prize before we do and then he’ll hand it over to Neville.”

“What could the prize possibly be if the spear of Lugh has been ruled out?”

“Fungus.” Wesley chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know, Annja. What I do know is that Slater charged in two weeks ago all generous and ‘let’s find the treasure,’ ensuring me I had the financing to hire a few more hands. But since he’s added the additional camp, he’s no longer providing for our side. I’ve had to scramble for funds to keep it going.”

“Why continue without the support?”

He turned a look on her that Annja knew she had given many a doubter over the years. She answered her own question before he could. “Because something could be there.”

“You never know what will turn up from the depths of history. And if someone wanted so desperately in on the other dig, then there must be something worth finding, eh?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your focus, Annja? You spend any amount of time in the field when you’re not filming?”

“Whenever I get the chance. Medieval studies are my specialty, but I’d never pass up a chance to help on a dig. Can you use an extra hand?”

“Hell, yes. You won’t be too busy with the television show?”

“I won’t get in your way. Just want to dig about a bit, get my hands dirty. And yes, I’ll be filming segments. Okay, here’s the truth. My producer wants me to track faeries.”

“Seems to be the consensus on the disappearances.” Wesley shrugged. “Be difficult getting the other crowd on film.”

Could someone please be on her skeptical side? she thought. “I’m sure. But maybe I can help solve the disappearances. If someone is kidnapping people who are generous enough to volunteer their time for such grueling digs, I want to find out who that someone is.”

“I like you, Annja. You’re a flash of sunlight on this sorry camp. If it’s not the weather giving us headaches it’s Slater. You want me to show you around?”

“I’d love that—”

Shouting from across the way alerted Annja. Slater was stabbing a finger into Eric’s chest. Eric had wandered too close to the enemy line.

5

Daniel had wandered off somewhere. A sweep of the camp’s periphery did not reveal the eccentric plaid-clad Irishman. Wouldn’t a guide have explained the lay of the land to Eric? That he probably shouldn’t wander onto the other camp, which was headed by a pistol-packing director? On the other hand, Annja was already taking sides and she hadn’t begun to learn the real facts. It wasn’t like her to make off-the-cuff judgments.

She insinuated herself between Eric and Michael Slater, and asked Slater, “Now what? Your bloodthirst not satisfied yet?”

Slater stepped back and smirked a slimy grin. Wesley was right; he did look too polished to be an archaeologist. And a bit too much with the angry, tight neck muscles.

“You have no fear, do you,” he countered, “stepping in the middle of a confrontation like that?”

“I doubt it was a mutual confrontation. Are you okay, Eric?”

“No problem,” he said. He clutched the camera to his chest and didn’t look fine. His face was flushed as red as his hair.

“Don’t worry, he’s a trooper,” Slater said. “I was just blustering with him. Seems you’re the lady in charge, so I best direct my concerns toward you. No cameras on the grounds,” Slater barked. “You were not granted permission to film here.”

“Mr. Pierce already gave me approval,” Annja said. “Don’t tell me the two camps are like two separate countries. Do I need a visa to access your dig?”

Slapping a palm over the gun holster, not as a means to pull it on her but perhaps just a security reassurance, Slater shook his head.

“Does Frank Neville have say over Pierce’s camp?” she challenged.

Slater crossed his arms high across his chest. “How do you know Neville?”

“I don’t, but I’m learning more and more each minute. Like the camp was split right after Mr. Neville’s men showed up.” Aware Eric was filming over her shoulder, she raised a hand and blocked his view. “Take a break, Eric. This isn’t necessary for the show.”

“But it shows the volatile mood on the dig,” he protested. “A mood probably created by the presence of the otherworldly.”

Slater’s brows waggled. He smirked and spat to the side. “Lookin’ for faeries, then, are you?”

“No. Erm…” This assignment was so lacking in credibility. But she’d never let that stop her before, or make her look bad. “I’m here to investigate the disappearances.”

“That’d be the fair folk,” Slater offered. “Good luck with that.”

He turned and stomped off, delivering her a smirking sneer over his shoulder.

“Good luck with that,” she mocked at his back. “This is hopeless, Eric. No one will take me seriously if they think I’m tracking faeries.”

“You won’t be saying that when we have them on film. I can feel the eerie mystical presence in the air.” He scanned his camera around to her face.

“Can you?” She sighed. “Good for you, Eric. The land is steeped in the mystical. I guess I need to relax and let it take hold of me, too.”

“Want to do the introduction now?”

“Save it. I want to walk the area with Wesley and see what’s what.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you are not my shadow—at least, not right now. You can film the countryside and get some pretty shots of the green rolling hills. The sunset is really enhancing the vivid greens and the sky as amazing. That’ll look great on film. Then skip down to the river and scan for mermaids if the mood takes you. But I don’t need you until I need you. Got that?”

He tilted his head aside from the viewfinder to eye her. “You see? There is an aggressive mood hanging over us all.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Annja stalked off, wondering if there was something to what Eric had said. When normal people became aware of danger such as a gun-wielding dig director, they went on guard without realizing it. It was simply an innate reaction to the feeling of uncertainty. Who wanted to work a dig with that kind of menace in the air?

No matter. She shouldn’t allow the volatile mood to creep into her psyche so easily, and would not.

A fine mist veiled the camp, dulling the air, but not Annja’s determined attitude. Surely, if faeries did exist, they would be here in bonny Éire. The green was so intense it hurt her eyes. Rolling soft grass, untouched by dig tools or rut-forming tires, undulated up a distant hill and was topped by a scatter of scraggly pine trees.

Breathing deeply, she concentrated on centering herself. She had let anxiety get the better of her. A deep inhale scented salty and fresh, mixed with earth and gasoline fumes.

“Petrol,” she muttered, correcting her language for the country.

“This way.” Daniel appeared, muddy fedora tilted to shadow his eyes. “I’ll show you about the camp. You’ve already met both dig directors.”

“Yes, and Wesley offered to show me around.”

“He’s nursing his wounds and letting the females fuss over him. This won’t take long. You’ve seen most of the layout already.”

His footsteps were fun to follow. Toes pointed forty-five degrees outward, Annja tried to fit her steps into his prints in the drying mud but her balance wavered from the task.

The sight of a little old lady in her peripheral view intrigued her. One was never too old to work a dig as long as they were eager. But Annja suspected perhaps the woman was a local who brought food to the crews, which was always a blessing when that happened.

She caught up to Daniel’s long strides. “Who is that?”

“Ah? Me mum. She visits digs on occasion. We get a lot in the area. Wanders the countryside and riverbank endlessly. Always looking for geegaws and collectibles, she is.”

“Collectibles? But whatever is dug up on-site is an artifact. She doesn’t try to buy things from the dig, does she?”

“Buy? Oh, no. You’d be amazed what an apple pie and a string of fresh blood sausage can get you.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“It’s how I learned to barter, watching me mum. She’s an avid collector. Her cottage is filled overflowing with all sorts of things. You’ll have to pay her a visit while you’re here.”

“I think I’d like that.” The idea of the old woman bartering for things found on digs—items that should normally belong to the landowner or government—stirred Annja’s curiosity. And her sense for protecting history.

“She’d be pleased if you would stop in for supper one night. I’ll arrange it, then.”

“So you have an interest in archaeology, Daniel?”

“Nope.”

“But you know the dig directors?”

“Yep.”

“What about this Neville guy?”

“Frank Neville. He’s an…acquaintance. I met him a few years ago and traded him a bottle of Lafite.”

Eric had referred to wine as being Daniel’s passion.

Bartering was a way of life for some people. They lived off the land, didn’t consume anything that could not be recycled and basically existed off the electronic grid. She suspected Daniel was the sort, and perhaps got by on very little, save for what he obviously bartered for.

“I know everyone in the area and most of West Cork, too, it seems,” he said. “Hear they believe they found some kind of faerie spear on this particular dig.”

“Allegedly. The spear of Lugh. It’s connected to the Tuatha Dé Danaan.”

“The tribe of the goddess Danu. I know the story. Don’t know much about the spear.”

“One of four magical gifts brought by the Danaan from four island cities of Tír na nÓg. It’s supposed to never miss its target and always return to the hand that threw it.”

He nodded, and shrugged. “Me mum’s probably already got it, then.”

WHILE THREE WOMEN and one man went about cleaning up their loose dirt and packing away their tools for the night, Wesley was still working when Annja returned to the dig square.

He waved her over and showed her the strata trench. Dug down about two feet, this trench was preserved to study the stratigraphy and gauge the year for each level of earth dug. Photographic records were usually kept nowadays, but Wesley explained he’d given Theresa a drawing frame and set her to work recording the north corner of the dig where a few pot fragments had been partially uncovered.

“Everyone should learn how to do it the old-fashioned way,” he said.

Annja sensed he enjoyed teaching and the satisfying tedium of the old-fashioned way. She would never go against a director’s methods, and didn’t mind the old-fashioned way so much herself.

He handed her a trowel, and Annja squatted next to him.

In this quadrant, the crew had dug down to about the mid-nineteenth century, according to a small matchstick tin they’d found two days earlier. Wesley suspected they’d tapped into a farmhouse that may have held victims of the potato famine. He planned to bring in soil samples to a lab in Cork for verification.

“I suspect we’ll find the pathogen that destroyed the crops,” he commented. “As I told you, we haven’t found any bones yet. Perhaps this farmstead was lucky and the family found their way to Liverpool or even America.”

Neither of which option would have been preferred, Annja mused. The Irish immigrants arriving in America had been treated as second-class citizens, if they made the trip successfully. The emigrants crossing the ocean to find prosperity in America were usually struck down with disease and fever during the long journey on the so-called coffin ships. And if they did set foot in New York, they were discriminated against, cheated and treated cruelly.

In England they’d received no better treatment. As soon as they’d arrived in Liverpool most of the Irish riffraff had been deported directly back to Cork.

With the open dig plan, the entire squared-off area was dug down, and baulks, or aisles of dirt marked in a grid and not dug, were not utilized.

Annja preferred the open-dig method. It was well enough that the walls of the open area served as a stratigraphy to measure their progress. One stone wall had been unearthed, and Wesley’s crew had earlier uncovered a fireplace.

“Was that feature apparent before digging began?” she asked Wesley.

“Yes, the entire stretch of wall and the stones of the hearth. The farmer removed the turf and found it. We’ve got dirt here, though, not peat like the other camp. I’m guessing the enemy camp is looking at the end of a farm plot, perhaps animal stables and a pond.”

Wesley pointed out an area he was working on and she moved beside him to inspect.

“A wall feature, yes?” He traced the outline of an oblong mound with the tip of his trowel. “Probably another two or three feet into the earth. Puts us back another few centuries. I just wish we had the time to go at this slowly. Yesterday one of my crew destroyed a wood feature, could have been a table or part of a chair. Can’t blame her, though.”

Annja teased the dirt with her trowel and worked efficiently next to Wesley. “Why the rush?”

“Slater’s been pushing to get us all to leave. I managed to negotiate another week.”

“What have they found that they want to keep you off the entire dig so badly? Have you gone over and taken a look around?”

He swiped a hand over his hair and lifted his face to worship the setting sun. “Tried, but there’s security at night. Only one guard I’ve noticed, but I’m sure that’s a machine gun slung across his shoulder. Couple of nights ago they drove a truck in and something was going on.”

“You camp on-site?”

“Not usually, but I’d been tooling around with this feature, wanted to get deeper. You know how that goes.”

“You love the work,” Annja guessed.

“As much as I bet you love it. I gotta ask, and I hope you don’t mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did you ever get involved in a TV show that chases after stories like the other crowd?”

“We chase all sorts, actually. Werewolves, vampires, yeti.” Annja smirked. “We’re an equal-opportunity monster-hunting show.”

“Well, now, you ever talk to a vampire?”

“No. You?”

He cast her that sexy grin that Annja was beginning to realize must work as a sort of lodestone to any women within stumble-over-her-feet range. “Nope, but wouldn’t mind the conversation over roast pheasant with Vlad the Impaler.”

“He’s dead.” She lifted a trowel of displaced dirt and emptied it into a nearby bucket. “And so is Frankenstein’s monster and Dr. Jekyll. Not dead, actually, never existed.”

“Skeptic, eh? So why this assignment?”

“It got me here, sitting in a pile of ancient rubble, with trowel in hand. Couldn’t be happier. Well, I could.”

“How so?”

“Earlier, you mentioned the men who disappeared, but we were interrupted before I could ask more. Can you tell me anything about the girl who disappeared from this dig? Description? Was she friends with everyone here? Anyone have something against her? Was she native to the area?”

“Whoa, the detective is overtaking the archaeologist.”

“It’s what we do, isn’t it? Play detective. Search for clues and piece them together to create a story.”

Wesley tapped the trowel against his boot to shake off the dirt and sat back, wrists resting on his knees. “I wish I could help you, Annja.” He scanned the sky, yet Annja sensed his sudden lack of ease from the tapping of his fingers on his knee.

“Beth Gwillym was spending the summer here on the dig. She came from England, though haven’t a clue whereabouts. I don’t do background checks. Basically, if you’re willing and not stupid, you’re hired. She was pretty, young and amiable. I know it sounds awful, but I’ve been preoccupied with that other damned site lately. While I had in heart to keep my people protected from loose cannons like Slater, I should have been paying more attention to my own site. Beth was friendly with everyone, I do know that, didn’t have any enemies.”

“What about boyfriends? Anyone she was seeing? That she might have had a fight with?”

She couldn’t catch his facial movements because he’d tilted his head down, perhaps away from the sun. Annja suspected it was something less to do with the light than a need to keep secrets. Interesting.

“You’re not going to accept the well-agreed-upon fact that the other crowd snatched her away?”

Annja sighed. “Wesley, I know the Irish hold great reverence for…the fair folk. And sure, faeries like to steal humans, or trick them into their circles and make them dance for years and years.”

“They steal babies, too,” he added, more seriously than she wished. “Leave behind changelings, sometimes nothing more than a dried old stump sitting in the cradle.”

“Right. I don’t wish to challenge anyone’s pagan beliefs—”

“Ooh, the Catholic chick is challenging my beliefs.”

“What makes you say I’m Catholic?”

“A guess. Almost twenty percent of the world is. And I’m not a pagan, just a believer in what feels right.”

“Little people with wings feels right to you in this situation?”

He smirked. “No. But if you’ve read anything about the Irish legends of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, they’re not so little. Our size, actually.”

“I did do research on the flight here. They were warriors who landed in Ireland around 1470 BC.”

“Right,” Wesley said. “And after many battles against the original Irish, or Fir Bolgs and Milesians, they were finally defeated and went to live underground with the Sidhe. They never reveal themselves to humans, unless you’re one of the old folk who do put credence in the myth. I bet every other farmhouse in the county still puts a bowl of cream out on their back step before turning in, to appease the other crowd.”

“Bet the feral cats love that,” Annja said.

“Meow,” Wesley said snidely. “So I’m guessing I’ll never see Annja Creed’s name connected with astro-archaeology?”

“You got that right.”

Some astro-archaeologists believed humans on earth were descended from aliens, or at the least, they’d been given alien technology to create some of the amazing architecture throughout history. A person had to possess a certain degree of belief in the unbelievable. No skeptics allowed.

“Ever been to Puma Punku?” Wesley asked. “That site will make you wonder.”

“I have, and it did.”

The ruins in Bolivia were rumored to be seventeen thousand years old, yet they possessed remarkable stone technology. Some of the construction blocks were estimated at four hundred and forty tons. There was no known technology at the time that could have transported those blocks the distance from the quarry. The precisely cut stones stirred rumors of alien involvement in the creation.

“You know anyone with the other dig who might talk? Someone friendly and not packing a Walther?” Annja asked.

The sun beamed across Wesley’s face as he thought about it. Annja loved the rugged, adventurer look. He was a man of her kin. Happy under the open sky, and always with dirt under his fingernails, and a question that needed answering.

“Nope, not a one. They’re mostly new since the camps have split. Don’t really know any other than Slater. He’s a Brit, you know.”

“Got a problem with Brits?”

“As a matter of fact, they don’t know how to dig correctly.” He tapped her trowel, which she had been absentmindedly scraping across the surface, and now realized she’d nicked a piece of something white. “What do you have there?”

“Looks like a bone. Excellent. Let me show you how well I can dig.”

“All right, American. Hey, what’s that?”

Looking up from the find, Annja squinted and scanned the horizon. A crowd was gathering at the field edge where the grass grew high and both camps joined.

“Let’s go take a look.” Wesley left her behind, but not for long.

“Annja!” Eric appeared, gestured toward the commotion and took off, camera at the ready.

The cause of the excitement wandered onto the dirt area in front of a parked vehicle. A woman about twenty-two. Surrounded by curious people, she held out her hands as if to ask for space, or maybe just to keep her bearings.

“Beth,” Annja heard Wesley say.

The missing girl? She quickened her steps to join the gathering. The crowd was keeping its distance, not blocking her in, yet one woman took Beth’s arm and led her to a stop.

“Beth?” Wesley approached her. “Where have you been?”

The bedraggled woman stared blindly at Wesley. A few leaves were tucked in the dirty blond strands of her tangled hair. Her fingers and palms were dirty, as well as the knees of her khaki pants. All in all, though, she looked healthy; maybe she’d just taken a stumble in the dirt.

Annja recalled what Daniel had said about her disappearance. She had been missing a little over thirty-six hours.

“Who took you?” someone called out from the crowd.

“Yes.” Annja stepped forward and addressed the woman. “Do you know what happened? Who took you? Or did you get lost?”

Beth looked up and when Annja thought the frail, shaking woman was looking into her eyes she realized she was focused just over her shoulder—where Eric stood with the camera.

“The fair folk,” the woman said.

The crowd nodded, muttering that they knew it. Didn’t want to believe it, but now it was a sure thing.

Annja turned to Eric and rolled her eyes at the camera. “Cut,” she said.

6

Garin left the details of landing at the airport to his pilot. The man had never failed him, and always managed to land within minutes of his estimated arrival time.

Garin planned to send his luggage directly to his Manhattan penthouse because he was headed straight for the auction house.

Strolling toward customs, Garin mused over why he’d jumped so quickly at the snap of Roux’s fingers. He didn’t usually allow the old man to order him about. Hell, for more than five hundred years the two of them had embraced a sort of unavoidable acceptance of the other. Because they were the only five-hundred-year-old men walking the earth these days. They had a connection that neither would deny, and when one truly needed the other, all petty disagreements were overlooked.

And if Roux thought Annja would appreciate the Fouquet, then Garin could see that—much as he never wanted to look at that painting again. Obtaining it would be no problem. So long as he made the auction in time.

He checked his watch. Bidding didn’t start for another hour and a half. The limo could have him there in forty-five minutes.

Annja Creed. Now there was a remarkable woman. She put the woman Garin had left in his bed to shame. There was simply no comparison between the two.

Annja was a breed apart from the sort of women with whom Garin surrounded himself. She would never allow any man to push her around, to make assumptions regarding her willingness to please and/or serve him. Smart, sexy and adventurous, she also owned the one thing that kept Garin up some nights.

The sword once wielded by Joan of Arc.

It was a sword Garin had seen in use by the sainted young woman, for he had been apprentice to Roux when the man had been appointed to guard Jeanne d’Arc. For some reason, after the sword had been wrested away from the Maid of Orléans and shattered, Garin and Roux had become immortal. He didn’t know why, but he’d accepted the gift for what it was. Who wouldn’t accept immortality?

But now that the sword had been put together and Annja wielded it as if a mystical extension of Jeanne’s will—what then?

Garin couldn’t be sure if his immortality had been lost. He didn’t feel older. It had only been a few years since Annja had taken possession of the sword. And Lord knows he’d tried to take it from her, to smash it, and put things back the way they should be. But he couldn’t.

Out of Annja’s hands the sword would not remain solid, unless she willed it so. She could hand it to him to look over, if she wished—and she had. But she did not trust him to do anything more than quickly inspect the thing. And she shouldn’t.

But would he really break the thing should he again be given the opportunity? Some days he wasn’t so sure. Gaining Annja’s respect overwhelmed any desire to push her away as a result of stealing from her. He sincerely wanted to know her. To experience her in ways that not only included the flesh, but the mind and soul, as well. She fascinated him.

Very few women did so.

With a smile on his face, and his thoughts on the limber body of Annja Creed, Garin handed his passport to the customs official behind the counter.

He’d romanced Annja. He’d attempted to seduce her with fine things. She played along, but only so far. She wasn’t stupid, rather leery at times, and then at other times he could almost believe she was as interested in him as he her.

But to win her completely would end the wanting, the yearning, to learn more. And did he really want to spoil that anticipation?

“Did you have your passport, Mr. Braden?”

“Huh?” He steered his focus to the woman holding his wallet. He’d handed her his wallet by mistake? How one’s mind could get distracted when it was focused on a gorgeous woman. “Sorry.” He reached inside his inner suit coat pocket. “I have it…somewhere.”

Where was the damned thing? He’d had it on the jet. Had he dropped it after disembarking? “I seem to have misplaced it. I’m sure it’s on my private jet. I’ll just give the pilot a call—”

“If you’ll just step aside, Mr. Braden, we can work this out.”

Garin stroked his fingers down the lapel of his Armani suit and delivered his best sexy grin to the woman, who looked like she was serving the end of a thirty-hour shift and desperately needed a kind word. “I’ve got an appointment. If we can make this quick? I know it’s in the jet.”

The daggers in her look pricked his confidence. “Your jet just taxied for takeoff, Mr. Braden.”

“What?” He looked aside, as if to search for the jet, but he was too far from any window overlooking the runway. “We’ve only been on the ground twenty minutes. He couldn’t have refueled so quickly. Where is the man headed?”

“I have no idea, Mr. Braden. Please, if you’ll come with me.”

Garin slammed a fist on the counter, but refrained from swearing.

This was not going as smoothly as he’d anticipated.

7

Annja watched keenly as Michael Slater argued with Wesley over who would give Beth a ride to a hospital in Cork. Beth had disappeared from the good camp—as Annja had come to already consider Wesley’s camp—so why Slater cared was beyond her.

They didn’t argue for long. One of the women caught Beth as she fainted, and barked at Wesley to start up the Jeep. Slater conceded with a shake of his head and a glance to Annja. He’d obviously decided to blame her for things that went wrong.

“Quite the commotion, eh?” Daniel joined Annja as she turned to pace back to the tented area for a respite from the sudden mist. The saying was true: if you don’t like the weather in Ireland, just wait five minutes. She’d give it ten.

“Beth’s been missing for almost two days,” she said. “I can’t imagine what she must be feeling right now. Or thinking. She must be out of her head. At the very least, hungry and in need of a shower.” And so mentally traumatized as to believe she had actually been taken by faeries. “Is the hospital far?”

“It’s a bit over an hour’s drive into Cork.”

She would have liked to ride along with Beth and Wesley, asking questions as they made their way to Cork, but Annja did have a sense of compassion. And she had promised Wesley she would respect the situation. She was not a paparazzo desperate to get a photo of a wide-eyed innocent. Yet she must talk to her. Whatever Beth had been through could lead Annja to discovering the other men who had disappeared, and who was behind it.

“I might drive to Cork tomorrow, see if she’s coherent,” she said. “I don’t think she needs too much fuss right now. Wesley will ensure she gets the proper care. I suppose not much will get done on the dig now. I should head to my B and B. I’ve got some research to do.”

On hospitals in Cork and Beth Gwillym, she thought.

“You fancy that meal at my mother’s?” Daniel’s attention focused on the retreating vehicle, a strand of grass twitching at the corner of his mouth.

“A home-cooked meal sounds great, but there’s Eric, too.”

“He can come along. Mum always makes a feast on Fridays. She expects me to bring over friends. Girlfriends mostly, but I haven’t been a good son about that lately.”

He cast her a wink and marched off.

Had that been flirtation? The man had to be twenty years her senior. Not that he wasn’t attractive, albeit eccentric.

MICHAEL SLATER MARCHED across the trampled grass to the edge of the excavation site where the dried peat cushion made his footsteps feel as though he were walking on a strange planet.

The chief archaeologist, Maxwell Alexandre, was packing up his shovels, buckets and other equipment. He ran an efficient dig and was meticulous about putting things away at the end of the day. Slater appreciated anyone with a fastidious bone. Maxwell did what he was told, with little argument.

Rain rolled down his temples. Slater did not like the weather in this country; it was much worse than his native London, and that was saying a lot.

He gripped the handle of his Walther P99, still in its holster. It was something he did probably a dozen times a day. His training buddies had given him shit for his attachment to the thing. Bugger them. Some guys stroked their bollocks every now and then; he stroked his gun.

Alexandre popped his head up from the area marked off with pitons and ropes. “What was the commotion over there?”

“The girl is back,” Slater spat out. “The one the captain grabbed the other day.”

“How the hell did that happen?” Alexandre kicked the base of a black bucket, toppling it over. It was empty. “How’d she get free?”

“I don’t know, but heads will roll.” Twisting his neck against the tight muscle tugging along his jaw and throat, Slater nodded toward the black SUV that transported the crew into town each night. “You packing up?”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“I thought you understood we are on a time crunch? I want to be out of here within the week.”

Everything else Frank Neville had his hands in was scheduled to come down to the week’s deadline. This wasted nonsense of digging in the dirt twisted his knickers the wrong way. He had not signed on for kicking about bones.

“I know that.” Alexandre stood before Slater. He was taller by three inches, but both men were aware that when push came to shove Slater held the upper hand. “I’ve uncovered the entire skeleton.” He gestured behind him and Slater eyed the ground. “She’s a beauty thanks to the peat. Preserves bones and bits of fabric real nice like. But not sure I’m going to find any more rocks.”

“Give it another few days. Don’t things tend to…move around over the years?”

“Erosion does tend to do that, though not so much in these conditions. We’ll strip the area for sure. Won’t leave a single pebble unscrutinized.”

“You think it could have spread as far as the other camp?” Slater asked.

“Unlikely. Such a contained cache is probably going to be within the marked area we’ve pitoned off. I think it would be next to impossible for the rocks to move from the bog to the dirt the other camp is working in. Unless an animal did it? That’s always possible. When’s the next truck come in?”

Slater tucked his hand under an arm over the pistol. “Not that it’s any of your concern, but tomorrow night.”

“Just want to know to get the crew out on time. Settle your britches, Slater, the operation is going well.”

“This operation is a joke.” Slater harnessed his anger. “The girl—Beth—should have never gotten away. I’m going to check on the guys down by the river.”

8

“We moved them.” Reggie Marks, the captain of the officious little barge that camped down by the river, scratched his belly, and slapped his grungy felt cap back onto his bald head.

“And in the process you managed to lose one helpless woman?” Slater fisted his palms. “I can’t believe your ineptitude. Who hired you?”

“Your boss, that Neville bloke.” The captain sniffed, drawing far too much phlegm into his nasal cavities for Slater’s liking. He hacked and spat a globule over the starboard side of the barge. “Ain’t gettin’ paid to babysit or mollycoddle. You want we should keep some woman fancy and entertained, then you’re looking at the wrong crew. Just be thankful I didn’t let Smelly Joe get his hands on her. That man breaks his women.”

Despite his managing to keep a handle on all the operations Frank Neville had set into place since arriving in Ireland, Slater hadn’t been quick enough on the draw when hiring the barge crew. Good men were few and far. Neville trusted Slater to oversee this operation and as a right-hand man for his business deals, yet he still did a lot of work on his own. He was too determined, and far too controlling, to sit back and let it all happen.

“What you standing there for?”

Slater winced as the captain snorted again. “Nothing at all.” He turned and strode off.

TO CLAIM THE OFFICIAL title of village in Ireland, the settlement had to have a church, a post office and a pub. No other buildings required. These three things met, you have got yourself a village, Annja thought.

Remarkably, the village of Ballybeag boasted the Four Corners. Each corner featured a pub, though for all proper purposes the east corner was more a grocery store/petrol station that sold diner food and poured Guinness, as well.

O’Shanley’s sat on the west corner and Annja chose it for its smiling pink pig painted on the window. Daniel had dropped her and Eric off at a quaint bed and breakfast and they’d dumped their gear in their respective rooms. They’d missed the supper call, but the proprietress had offered to make cold beef sandwiches for them. They had dinner plans, but she left Eric behind to gobble down a few.

She sat down at the bar next to an older gentleman and ordered a Guinness. The bartender nodded and went to work. She knew a properly poured pint was all about patience.

Eric ambled in while she was waiting. He set his video camera on the warped wooden bar, ordered a Coke and winked at her. “No drinking while on the job,” he said. “A man’s gotta stay sharp.”

“Did you get footage of Beth coming out from the forest?” she asked.

“Yep, and it rocks. Her face was all ‘Hey, what’s going on? Who are you people?’ and she was stumbling and looked like she’d been through hell.”

“But no faerie dust, eh?”

“Faerie dust? Damn, I wasn’t looking for any. It should have sparkled in the sunlight, right?”

“I’m kidding you, Eric.”

“But seriously.” He leaned in, spreading a hand between them on the bar. “Maybe when I run the video through the threshold the faerie dust will show up like a black light seeking…er, well, you know.”

She did. And that image made her hope the sheets in her room had been changed since the last guests had stayed there.

“You up for a home-cooked meal in a bit or did you fill up on Mrs. Riley’s sandwiches? Daniel Collins invited us over to his mother’s this evening.”

“I’m full. Mrs. Riley made me eat three sandwiches and a huge bowl of cole slaw. It was good, but by no means could her cooking compete with a Big Mac.”

“If that’s what you want you’ll have to drive into Cork.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he said. “I may love to travel but I am a fries and burger guy all the way. I think I’ll pass on the invite. I want to check out the local music scene tonight.”

“Really? How much of a local scene is possible in a village this size? The population is less than two hundred.”

“You’d be surprised, Annja. On the way here, I saw musicians with guitars and flutes walking the street. I think they’re playing at the Hollow Bog across the way tonight.”

The south corner pub.

“It’s interesting that you’re into Celtic stuff, Eric. Good for you.”

“Celtic? Sure.” He tilted back the mug of soda, and Annja had to smirk. The kid hadn’t a clue what the local music was like. The Metallica T-shirt he wore promised he’d be more than a little disappointed upon hearing flutes and fiddles.

“You got enough money?” she asked, then inwardly cringed. She wasn’t the guy’s mother. But she did feel protective of him. She had traveled to dozens of countries and knew being abroad could be overwhelming. Away from his family, he had to feel vulnerable.

Annja hadn’t any family to claim, save for a few friends back in Brooklyn. She didn’t need family. Well, she tried to put it out of her thoughts. She’d been orphaned when she was very young. Family wasn’t necessary to survive.

“I’m cool, Annja. Do you think a video of the music would be good to insert into our piece? I mean, it would be like a montage of the culture.”

“That’s clever, Eric. I like it. Film away. I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”

He held up a palm and Annja answered by high-fiving him. Pleased, Eric gathered his equipment and left.

Annja wished the bartender would hurry, but noted her pint was only three-quarters full, and sat there waiting for the final top-off.

“Beautiful day,” she said to the man next to her. He nursed his own half-full pint.

“You folks from the dig?” His craggy voice was the closest Annja felt she’d get to leprechaun-speak.

“Yes. We’re filming for a television program that broadcasts in America.”

He nodded, his focus on the glasses lining the shelf behind the bar. Most had names written on them with a fancy scrawl and white pen. Not a big talker, she decided, but amiable enough that she might get something from him.

“I’m looking into the disappearances from the dig. Three people. Did you hear about that?”

He nodded again, and then sucked down a long swallow. “’Twould be the other crowd.”

“No offense, but—”

He chuckled as if his mouth were full of pebbles. “Ah, anytime a person starts a sentence with no offense means they are out to offend.”

“No, I—” The pint of Guinness was set before her. Liquid black gold captured in a glass. Annja dipped a finger into the thick creamy head and licked it. “If I may ask, when was the last time you saw the other crowd?”

The man made a show of turning toward her and propping an elbow on the bar. His salt-and-pepper beard had been stroked to a point. Age spots battled with bright blue veins across his cheeks. “Lassie, you need to know the other crowd are never seen, only felt.”

All righty, then. “Has this happened before? People gone missing? And the suspicion is that…er, the other crowd is involved?”

He swallowed back another tug, and took his time before answering. “I recall two decades ago Certainly Jones went missing for three months.”

“And?”

“He was found in a mud hole near the Bandon River. Broken leg.”

“He was in the hole three months?”

“No, he slipped and fell after the other crowd allowed him to go home. Had to promise them he’d never drive the Hightow Road again or cut the ash tree at the north end of his property.”

Annja knew that certain trees and bushes were revered as faerie trees. Oak, ash and the hawthorn bush, being the few she recalled from her research. It was thought the Sidhe, or faeries, lived beneath them in their tangled roots. Entire freeway systems were built around centuries-old trees for fear of messing with the faerie mojo. Same with faerie raths, like they’d passed on their drive out to the dig. The grass-covered hills were believed to house faeries beneath. It all related to the earliest inhabitants of the Island of Éire, the Tuatha Dé Danaan, as Wesley had confirmed her research.

“Tell me about the Tuatha Dé Danaan,” she asked. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

The man sized her up a moment, long strands in his eyebrows dancing as his forehead creased. Determining if she were worthy of his tale? With a slight nod, he splayed open his hand and began. “It all happened so long ago, in the BC times that you bone kickers like to dig about for.”

“BC means Before Christ, or Ante Christum.”

She caught the sharp cut in his glance and decided to remain silent for the rest of his story.

“A race of giants called the Fir Bolg were overtaken by the supernatural tribe Danaan. The tribe was reputed to be magicians and wield remarkable powers no man could explain. They battled against the Fir Bolg up by Cong, northwest of here. I’ve been there a time or two. The air broods still.”

He paused for a dramatic sip of Guinness. Annja found herself sipping just as carefully.

“It was the Celts who defeated the Tuatha Dé Danaan. It is said the battle was so bloody the sea turned red for an entire year. But when the Tuatha Dé Danaan knew their end was near they turned themselves into wee folk and fled underground to live among the Sidhe. You ever see a faerie rath?”

“The hills across the countryside? Yes. They are mystical.” She could go there. For the sake of his story.

“You best watch how you go about those raths and sacred ruins, my girl. The fair folk don’t give favor to those who tread their grounds with malicious intent.”

“Would they go so far as to kidnap a person who was making them angry?”

“Oh, yes.”

“What about someone who wandered onto their grounds without ill intent?”

“You keep asking stupid questions, you’ll go missing, too,” the man snapped, and turned back to his pint. Then she caught his grin before he quickly hid it by taking another swallow.

“Thanks for that encouraging vote of confidence. Stop asking questions and keep an eye out for things you can’t see. I’ll see what I can do about that,” she said.

“Make sure that you do.”

Annja relaxed as the thick froth trickled down her throat and was washed deeper with the cool beer. She’d have to tell Bart about this pint. He’d enjoy hearing every slow, creamy detail. She’d seen her dear friend Bart McGilley enjoy his fair share of Guinness.

“Heard Beth Gwillym wandered in from wherever she’d gone missing,” the man tossed out.

“Yes, little over an hour ago, actually. Did you know her?”

“I’ve heard of her.”

“Wesley Pierce drove her to Cork to have her checked out by a doctor.”

“Ah, Pierce is the bloke who winks at all the girls and flashes his unnaturally white teeth at ’em. He and Beth had a thing, you know.”

She’d suspected Wesley hadn’t told her everything. “How do you know?”

“Whole town knows. We know everything that’s up with everybody.”

She believed that. It probably wasn’t that easy to hide an affair, drinking problem or addiction when the center of town boasted the Four Corners.

“They had a spat, they did,” the old man said. “You might want to question loverboy if you’re intent on finding the real answers.”

“I’ll do that.” She believed the old man wasn’t trying to throw her off. He had no reason to.

“You talk to Mrs. Collins up the way?” the man asked. “You want to know about the other crowd, she’ll have what you need.”

Interesting. Daniel hadn’t mentioned his mother’s knowledge of faeries. “Thanks. I’m having dinner with her this evening.”

“Then you’ll see her collection. That lady does have a pack rat in her. Blessed Rachel.”

9

Garin raced to the curb where his limousine waited. The driver already had directions to the auction house. He slid inside and grumbled about the delay. “I had to get a passport waiver. This is obviously not my day.”

He settled in and reached for a bottle of Evian water as the car drove away from the airport. That hit the spot. They’d grilled him on his overseas travels. It was as if they’d suspected him of third-world espionage.

Although he could claim a certain amount of notorious dealings, he covered his tracks well. And he’d kept his cool while sitting in the customs office. He knew when to bow to authority and when it was best to make a fuss and start threatening subordinates.

To his credit, the man who’d contacted the German consulate to verify his passport had been polite and efficient. He’d wanted to get Garin through customs as quickly as he could, and Garin appreciated that.

“What time have you got?” he asked the driver.

“Ten after three, Mr. Braden. I’ll try my best, but the auction started at three.”

“Damn it.”

Roux had called while he’d been crossing the Atlantic Ocean to let him know his bidding paddle would be waiting. He wasn’t sure of the order of items to be auctioned off. He might still make it, unless the Fouquet went first.

“I can call in my bid. I’ll have to. Roux wanted me to take a look at it first, but it’s got to be the painting,” he mumbled to himself.

He slapped his suit coat, mining for his cell phone. “Hell!”

“You have a phone up there, Stephan?”

“Sorry, Mr. Braden. My daughter dropped it in the toilet this morning. Did you forget yours?”

“It’s back at the airport.” He turned, assessing which would be faster—making the turn and getting back on the ring road that surrounded the airport, or driving straight on and crossing his fingers this limo could fly.

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