by Alex Archer
“Like I said—”
She wasn’t going to fish around and risk him holding back information again, not in a situation like this. “Before you answer that, a man I met in one of Ballybeag’s pubs told me—and supposedly it’s a well-known rumor—that you and Beth had a thing.”
Wesley bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair. He cast her a you-caught-me smirk. “It was a one-night thing, Annja. I didn’t think my sex life was important to your investigation.”
“It’s not, but did you and Beth have an argument? Did she have any reason to wander off?”
“Because of me? Hell, no.”
“So why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because that’s exactly what I thought people would think, that I did something to put her in danger. Slater said as much.”
“Slater?”
“He threatened me to keep quiet about it all or he’d tell everyone I hit Beth.”
“That’s why you two were fighting when I arrived.”
“Yes. I was protecting Beth’s reputation more than mine. She’s just a kid, Annja. Well, you know, she’s legal, but only twenty. I was glad Slater got rid of the BBC because the last thing Beth needs now is lights and cameras and nosy reporters. You aren’t going to film Beth in the hospital?”
“I…” It seemed necessary for the story, but also intrusive, as he implied. “I’m not sure. I’d never force her to do an interview unless she was of sound mind and knew exactly what she was agreeing to. I have compassion, Wesley. I would never harass someone just for a sensational story.” She tapped a few keys and brought up a site of historical maps.
“Did I see you and Slater chatting earlier?” he asked.
Chatting? With a gun pressed to her temple. That was a good one.
“He’s not exactly the chatty sort. More of a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-air kind of guy, you know?”
“Yeah, he’s an arsehole.”
She couldn’t have put it better herself.
“My goal is to keep the terms between us good,” Wesley said. “He does have the gun.”
“And, obviously, the upper hand. Is he trying to push you off the dig completely?”
Wesley leaned in to command the keyboard and scrolled through the list of maps the geological site brought up. “I don’t intimidate easily, Annja. And I will not be chased away with my tail between my legs. I’m here on behalf of NewWorld, no matter who supposedly runs the dig now. And until NewWorld tells me to back off, I’m staying. But I feel as though they’ve abandoned me.”
“The company hasn’t been in contact with you? To give directions as to whether to stay or pack up?”
“Nope.”
She glanced over to the opposing camp. Slater’s stick-straight profile was nowhere in sight, but the camp had erected a canvas tarp with rope run through grommets along the east side of the dig that basically served as a wall to keep the other camp from seeing what was going on.
“I’m not sure why you’re so curious about that British arsehole, but I like it,” Wesley said. “Feisty women turn me on.”
What to say to that? She wasn’t the classiest chick when it came to flirting with the opposite sex. In fact, she tended to slip into goof mode too often when the need to be something more than a television host or archaeologist arose. Fortunately, no one was aware of her flirtations at Daniel’s stones the other night.
Wesley tapped the screen. “Here’s what I need. A land survey dated 1851. I have a printer in the back of the Jeep. Can we make a connection?”
“Connection?” Annja dropped her lower jaw. The man’s eyes were so blue. Blue set against suntanned flesh and underlined by a movie star’s smile. “Uh…”
His smile tilted and his eyes narrowed. “Earth to Annja.” A snap of his fingers startled her out of her silly stare. “Where were you right now?”
She most definitely was not going to tell him that she’d taken a dive into his baby blues. “Uh…the printer. Just wondering if—yes, we can make that connection. Let’s go see what we need to do.”
He chuckled as she grabbed the laptop and marched toward the Jeep.
A moment later, Wesley strode alongside her. “You want to see Slater at his finest?”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s Saturday night. You can find him, myself and a few others from the dig in Cork at the Bones Club. It’s bare-fists night.”
“Bare fists? A fight club?” She studied Wesley’s face. “You’ve still got a cut lip from the other day.”
“Yeah, but I think that was from Collins. Slater’s a gut puncher. If you lose against him you’ll be walking bent over for days and won’t be able to keep food down. I ate groats for four days in a row after my first match against him a few weeks back.”
“So let me get this straight. You all are enemies, mastering your individual digs and spearing each other with the evil eye during the week. Then on the weekend…?”
“The gloves come off.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “It’s good-natured, though. We shake beforehand and after. A man shouldn’t enter the fight with anger, only the need to test his own skills.”
“After the fight I witnessed upon arriving I have to wonder if you and Slater can go at it good-naturedly.”
“Well, then, you’ll have to stop in for a look. You come along, I’ll buy you a pint afterward.”
Annja thought about it. A night at a bloody fistfight wasn’t going to further her research for the show, or the personal desire to find those missing people. Yet after her encounter with Slater and his gun, she did want a closer look at the man, to see what made him tick. She wanted to see him with his neatly laced boots and militant posture loosened.
“Deal. I think I’ll pass on the ride to Cork, though. I’m going to head into town early. I’ll meet you there?”
“Sure. Here’s the address.” He explained how to find the clubhouse, which was more of a gym than a fancy club. “Ten of the clock. Tell the bruiser at the door you’re with me.”
19
“The Emerald Isle has long been known for gorgeous landscapes, mysterious and mystical rock formations and even a leprechaun or two.”
Annja paused and shook her head. “This isn’t working.” The sun hit her eyes and not squinting made them water.
“It’s working, Annja,” Eric coached. “Just go with it. We need an opening segment.”
“Right.” She had a lot on her mind, but reminded herself she was getting paid for this. Assuming professional TV host mode, she pasted on a smile and repeated the opening monologue to the Chasing History’s Monsters episode.
They finished ten minutes later, and Annja felt drained. She was the one who bolstered the show’s fantasy and high-jinks with facts and knowledge. It was Kristie Chatham’s job to do the puff pieces and attract the viewing public with her silicone smile.
“It’s people, not faeries,” she said to Eric as they hiked to the Mini Cooper. “People with guns, I’m sure.”
“Just because the guy wants to protect himself doesn’t mean he’s capping people, Annja. Slater’s cool.”
“Really?” She waited for Eric to slide his equipment into the hatchback. He was careful with his equipment, which went a long way in endearing him to her. He was young, yet he did want to learn. And he was skilled with the equipment. She shouldn’t have prejudged him so harshly. “I saw him yelling at you yesterday. Is it his Rolex or his smart-ass attitude that impresses you so much?”
“Annja, he’s just doing his job. Obviously whatever they’re digging for is valuable.”
“Any artifact can prove of value. But most of the time that value isn’t proven until much later, after the dig has been backfilled and the artifacts have been studied in a lab. We saw a skeleton less than a foot under the topsoil, Eric. That doesn’t make it old. For all we know, it could have been a hiker who went missing ten years ago.”
“That’s callous.”
“But it’s a possibility, and we hav
e to examine all possibilities before arriving at a truth. There’s no reason for security unless it’s been proven items of value have been uncovered. I want to know what Slater’s team has uncovered.”
Eric slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. “Do you always use company time to go off on your own and do side projects, Annja?”
“I’m going to forget you just said that.”
“Sorry.”
She did not do that. It so happened that the side projects followed her, no matter where she traveled.
“But seriously,” Eric continued, “you’re on Doug’s dollar. Or rather, my father’s.”
“Your father?”
Eric shifted on the seat. He scanned the horizon, avoiding her eyes. The sky was gray and promised imminent rain.
“I’m not following,” she prompted. “What does your father have to do with this trip to Ireland? I thought it was just a box of cigars he’d sent along for Daniel?”
Eric rubbed the heel of his palm against his jaw. Nervous. And so he should be if he was hiding something.
“Eric?”
“My dad is financing this trip. He provided the tickets here and is paying for room and board for me. He wanted me to get a good start in the business, and Chasing History’s Monsters is my favorite show.”
“So Doug was bribed? Why does that sound so believable?”
Doug Morrell was a great guy, had unique and oftentimes insane visions for the show, and at times Annja considered him her friend.
As far as possessing a moral compass, Doug was all over the map. He wasn’t beyond Photoshopping fangs on Transylvanian villagers to up the ratings, and Annja felt sure he was behind the incident last year that saw her head pasted on a nude body and circulated on all the online celebrity skin sites.
“Was the other cameraman even sick?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Doug about that. I wanted to do an amazing project for my final exam,” Eric said. “My media teacher is going to love this stuff.”
“Are you a college freshman?”
He shrugged and still didn’t meet her eyes. What was so wrong that he’d suddenly clammed up? There wasn’t a secret the guy could harbor that would top her secret. Unless…
Annja dropped her head against the headrest. “Don’t tell me.”
“All right, I won’t. But it would so rock if you’d come to my high school graduation, Annja. My friends would get such a kick out of meeting you.”
His high school graduation. She was sitting in a foreign country with a high school student determined to ace his finals with a complex study in faeries, and who had begun to idolize a man who liked to caress his gun and bully reporters.
“Are you telling me the truth that your father knows all about this?”
“Definitely.”
“And he’s cool with his son taking time off from school to do this project?”
“It’s spring break, Annja, if you haven’t noticed.”
She had missed that one. Must be the lacking beachfront and bikini-clad girls gone wild. “Next time we hit the pub,” she said, “you are drinking soda.”
“Come on, Annja. I’m eighteen.”
“The drinking age is twenty-one.”
“It’s eighteen in Ireland. My father raised me with European esthetics. I’ve been drinking beer for years.”
“Whatever. I am not your mother.” As he’d so snidely pointed out already.
Annja drove the next forty-five minutes with the radio turned up loud.
Though Cork was the third largest city in Ireland, and was a major seaport, it was easy enough to navigate, if you didn’t have to cross the river Lee. The river spread through the city in two channels, forming an island of the city’s center much like Paris, and Annja guessed if you had to go anywhere fast, you’d have to constantly cross bridges.
The hospital Beth had been admitted to was on the west edge, so she needn’t venture too far into the city. After she’d wrapped filming, she intended to finagle a day of sightseeing here before returning to the States.
But tonight was all about the fight club.
She still hadn’t decided what to do with Eric. He shouldn’t be allowed to watch. On the other hand, he was a guy; this was probably his kind of thing. On the other hand, he was only eighteen. On the other hand, if she tried to tell him he wasn’t old enough, he’d flip.
And on the final hand, she wasn’t his mother. And she had run out of hands long ago.
The whole parenting thing must be the toughest job out there. Annja had been raised in an orphanage. She had no idea what it was like to have parents, let alone be a parent.
She parked in the shade and asked Eric to remain by the car while she went in to see if there was a chance of catching Beth coherent, and not surrounded by militant nuns.
“LEARN ANYTHING?” Eric asked when she returned to the car.
“I managed to peek in her room, but she’s still out of it. She’s listed as serious condition. That’s very odd. I never thought LSD could be so dangerous.”
But then, any kind of recreational drug had devastating effects if used in large dosages.
Annja navigated an intersection and noted the white van that had been following for a couple blocks turned the same direction. There were no plates, and the windows were blacked out.
If that wasn’t suspicious, she’d eat Mrs. Riley’s black pudding for breakfast tomorrow without complaint.
20
Checking the rearview mirror, Annja verified that the white van still followed them. She turned right. The van turned right. She kept pace with the minimal traffic and eyed an alleyway set between a closed automotive shop and a music store. With her turn, the van also turned.
They were not being covert at all. It was as if they wanted her to know they were following. That made them either stupid or looking to talk.
Eric looked up from his camera. He’d been reviewing video. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Your knuckles are white, and you keep checking the mirrors.”
Points for the cameraman. “We’re being followed.”
“Followed?”
She slapped an arm across his chest before he could completely turn in his seat to look out the rear window.
“By who?” he asked.
“I don’t know, but don’t be so obvious. Stay calm. And…can you film the van covertly?”
“Covert? Oh, yeah, no problem.” He positioned the camera between the seats. “Dude, there’s no plates on the van. Is this normal for the show segments?” he asked. “All this stealth and covert sneaking about?”
“To a degree. Depends on who you talk to and if you ask the wrong questions.” And whether or not your name was Annja Creed. “But honestly, no, this is not normal.”
Two men sat in the front of the van. Annja had no idea if there were others in the back. She didn’t spot weapons, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. She had the sword to hand whenever she needed it, but sword fighting required close contact. A girl couldn’t toss a three-foot sword from the car and expect it to meet its target, then return to her.
Although, that was kind of how Mrs. Collins had explained the spear of Lugh worked. Okay, so she wouldn’t dismiss the possibility such a spear existed just by principle, but if it did exist, it was not presently hanging on Mrs. Collins’s wall.
“Gotta try that move sometime,” she muttered, and slammed on the brakes to avoid a bicycle crossing against a red light.
“Try what?” Eric asked, bent low in the middle of the seats and filming.
“Biking with a death wish,” she muttered.
The geriatric cyclist didn’t even glance at the vehicle that had almost killed him. Steady and straight on, he continued his lethargic crossing. How he even maintained balance fascinated Annja.
“I can see you doing that. BMX would be right up your alley, Annja.”
She could handle the rugged mountain trails with the right bike and e
quipment. But flying through the air and doing loop-de-loops for the sporting entertainment of it? Not so much.
“All right, enough filming. Time for you to buckle up. They’re getting aggressive.”
Annja turned away from the main streets and aimed for what she hoped would be a less populated neighborhood. She should drive out of the city but she hadn’t got her bearings and with the unfamiliar roads she just wanted to keep Eric safe.
She missed a stop sign, and Eric directed her left. She turned right.
She saw the glint of a pistol jut out the passenger window of the van. “Here we go. Head down!”
She slapped her palm against the back of Eric’s head as a bullet pierced the rear window.
Eric swore and slid down as far as the seat belt would allow. “They’re shooting at us? What did we do? Is this about filming on the dig?”
“It had better be.” If there were thugs after her for other reasons, they could take a number because she only had time right now to deal with this situation. “Hold on.”
Swerving sharply, the Mini’s tires thudded against the curb as she entered a tight alley. The tarmac was loose and potholes shook the tiny car.
Too late, Annja saw her mistake. The alley was a dead end sided by brick walls. Laundry hung across three or four lines from the second floor up to the fourth.
The white van barreled up behind them and braked to a stop.
“Now what?” Eric had forgotten her suggestion to keep his head down. He eyed the shattered window, which provided no good view of the van. “This isn’t cool anymore. They have guns!”
“I don’t want to do this with you,” Annja said. “I can’t risk you being hurt. Sorry about this, Eric.”
She punched him under the jaw. The sharp angle rocked his skull and pinched off his oxygen. A knockout punch. He slumped on the seat. Annja shoved him farther down so his head was below the window level and out of risk for catching a bullet aimed at her.
Kicking open the driver’s door, she stepped out. A bullet hit the brick wall three feet from her and sprayed the rubble of brick against her shoulder and cheek. She ducked behind the open car door and summoned her sword to hand.
