“Do my grandparents know you’re here?” she tried again, though she already knew the answer.
He froze at the sink. His shoulders clenched under his T-shirt. He dried his hands on a towel.
“Can I get you something?” he asked. “A cup of tea? Coffee?”
She was about to refuse his offer point blank when she changed her mind. Though he avoided her questions, he seemed anxious to please. His look was strained and unhappy. Her antipathy toward him eased a little. Aware of the dark night lurking outside, she admitted to herself she was glad of the company.
“A cup of coffee, thanks. Milk, no sugar.”
“Would you like a biscuit?”
“Do you mean a cookie?”
“Cookie? Is that a real word?”
His quick grin was disarming.
“You must be hungry after your trip,” he said. “I’ll fix you something.”
Though she hadn’t thought of eating, she found herself savoring the sandwich he made. The bread was thick and fresh, the cheddar tangy, and he had sprinkled a green herb onto the tomato.
“Thyme,” he told her, when she asked. “It’s growing wild in the garden.”
She ate at the table. He pulled up a chair beside her.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” he said quietly, “or I wouldn’t be here. I just needed to get away.”
His eyes finally met hers in a flash of startling blue. It was like a plunge into the sea. She looked away. Sipped on her coffee. This was a complication she wasn’t prepared for.
“How long were you planning to stay here?”
He shrugged.
“I have no plans. I’ve been wandering around on the bike. I thought of going to London, but I hate cities. Nannaflor often spoke of this place. She said I was welcome to stay whenever I wanted, and she told me where the key was.”
Laurel’s curiosity was piqued.
“Why did you leave like that?”
He flinched at the directness of her question.
“It was always on the cards. I … I couldn’t …” His voice sounded strangled. “The whole son-of-the-minister thing. The others always watching me, judging me. I’m not like them. I never have been.”
Though she didn’t say so, she could understand.
An awkward silence ensued. The ticking of the old clock on the mantel seemed uncommonly loud. Outside the cottage, the wind was rising to a high-pitched whine. A light rain began to fall, whispering in the thatch.
“Do you mind if I stay here tonight?” he asked tentatively. “I’m kipping on the sofa. That leaves you the bedroom. I’ll be gone in the morning.”
She had already decided he could. After her experience at the station, she was happy not to spend her first night there alone. Yet she couldn’t resist a throwaway remark.
“I’d hardly kick you out at this hour, even if I wanted to.”
He wasn’t able to hide his reaction. She caught the look of fury before he suppressed it. An image nagged at the back of her mind.
“On the cliff path in Bray, that bird … did you kill it?”
He was taken aback.
“No … no, that’s not … It came at me out of the blue.” He touched the cut on his face that was now a pale scar. “I didn’t know what was going on. There was kind of a flurry, I grabbed at it and then …”
His voice trailed off. He seemed genuinely unsure of what happened.
Great, a psycho in the house. She made a mental note to put a chair against the door of her bedroom.
“I wouldn’t kill anything deliberately,” he insisted. “And I have a thing for birds. I would never hurt them.”
It sounded true. She was reminded of Fionn on the bus, and asked without thinking, “Can you read the patterns in their flight?”
He gave her a funny look and snorted derisively.
“I’d never’ve pegged you for the hippie-dippy type.”
“People change.”
Her tone was sharp, but she was more annoyed at herself. By giving him a hint of her secret world, she had allowed him to mock it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Wasn’t that what Honor once said when Laurel made fun of her beliefs?
Another silence fell between them, but this one was volatile. All that was needed was a spark to set them off.
Ian stood up.
“It’s bloody cold in here. I’ll get the stove going.”
She welcomed the distraction and offered to help.
“Roll up some newspaper,” he said, “and bung it in with the firelighters.”
He located the tongs for lifting the iron plates that lined the top of the stove. As he set the fire, he showed her what to do.
“Put small bits in at first, then when the flames get going, shovel in a load and keep feeding it. There’s more turf and coal in the shed outside. If you’re leaving the house for a while or going to bed, cover the fire with slack. That’s the bucket of crushed coal, there. It forms a kind of cave over the flames and keeps them on a slow burn. If the fire stays lit, you’ll always have hot water in the radiators, and for the sinks and bath. But there’s an electric shower, too, so no panic.”
Her grandfather had given her the same instructions, but she was glad to see them in action.
By the time the radiators were singing with heat and the cottage was cozy, they were both feeling friendlier toward each other.
“Cup of tea?” Ian suggested.
Laurel shook her head. She was collapsing with exhaustion.
“I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”
It was only when she said good night that he asked the question she had hoped to avoid.
“Why are you here on your own?”
It was her turn to lower her eyes and struggle for explanations.
“I … it’s … private,” she mumbled, before hurrying to her room.
He would hear nothing from her about fairies and lost kings.
The bedroom was small and had an iron bed covered with a patchwork quilt. There was a dressing table with a round mirror and a washstand with porcelain jug and bowl. Pots of dried lavender tinted the air. The bookcase was stacked with children’s books. The Chronicles of Narnia. Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard. The Midnight Folk. The Enchanted Castle. The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey. The Blue Fairy Book. The musty hardbacks had notes scrawled inside their jackets. With a mild shock, she discovered her father’s name. Of course. These would have been his as a child.
A wave of pain struck her as she thought of her dad and then her mom. She had shut them out the past year, living like a ghost in their home. It must have broken their hearts all over again, as if they had lost not one but two daughters.
Mustn’t think about that, Laurel told herself. Don’t look back, only forward. Act as if you believe and all will be well.
She dragged herself into bed. The mattress felt cold and damp. She cocooned herself in the quilt, glad of the flannel pajamas her grandmother had packed. The wind whistled in the eaves above her. Rain spattered the window panes. The susurrus of the sea sounded outside.
Closing her eyes, she tried to will herself to sleep. So far, so good. Whatever surprises the day had brought—Granny, the raven-man, the hippie bus, and Ian—she had arrived in one piece and would begin her quest tomorrow.
She slipped her hand under her pillow where she had put a photograph of Honor.
Good night, sis.
It was much later when she woke. The room was dark, but she knew someone was there.
t was the noise that woke her. Scuffles and snuffles and scampers across the floor. Along the base of the walls. Over the dresser. A clink as the water jug rattled in its bowl. Mice? Laurel was about to jump up and turn on the light when she heard the giggles. She caught her breath. Something strange was happening. There were more giggles and then whispers. They were moving swiftly around the room. She nearly screamed when something landed on the bed with a small thump. She bit her lip, willing
herself to be still. There was no squeaking. Definitely not mice. More soft bodies landed on the bed. Now they ran up her back! It was the oddest sensation. Little feet like finger tips. Giddily she realized they were playing tag and using her as a springboard to leap off the bed. She was more curious than afraid. When she peeked through her eyelashes, she glimpsed flickers of color. The logical part of her brain offered explanations, including a vivid dream brought on by the mission and headlights from a passing car refracted through raindrops on the windowpane. She dismissed these as nonsense. Whatever was happening was much more exciting.
Something stood close to her nose. She could sense it peering into her face. A sweet fragrance wafted toward her.
“Ah, poor thing,” said a silvery voice. “She’s sad and lonely.”
“Give her a kiss,” suggested another.
This led to snickers. Other voices added their encouragement. Laurel felt the press of tiny lips on hers, and tried not to smile. A feather’s tickle. The taste of dewdrops.
A crowd had gathered at the edge of her pillow. Their game was suspended as they discussed her.
“Moon-colored hair and a face like a pearl.”
“I wish we could steal her.”
“Don’t be silly. You know she is in league with the Gentry.”
“Her family has always sided with the Court.”
“More’s the pity!”
A stroke as gentle as thistledown brushed her cheek.
Laurel couldn’t help herself.
She sneezed.
In the cacophony of screeches that followed, her eyes flitted open. She had to swallow a cry. Oh the wonder of it! She was surrounded by whorls and tinsels of light—glittering golds and greens, frilly pinks and blues. A burst of miniature fireworks! And inside the lights flashed limbs, veined wings, and streaming tresses. But it was all too much. Too weird and unearthly. Terrified, she clenched her eyes shut again. She was fairy-struck.
Yet with the terror came a thrill of delight. Woven through the fear of the supernatural was the thread of enchantment. The faint shimmer of a promise in the dark of night. If such things are possible, then dreams may come true.
She didn’t want them to leave. She pretended to snore so they would settle.
They dropped out of the air and back onto the bed, like a shower of petals. The giggles started up again. A daring imp climbed onto Laurel’s head.
“I’m giving her elf-locks for the fright she gave us.”
“Mind you don’t wake her!”
“She can’t be woken. A pisreog was put on the biscuits and all have been eaten.”
“They’ll come for her soon,” someone said with a sigh.
“What a shame!” cried another. “Will they harm her?”
Laurel could feel the little fingers making knots in her hair. She fought the urge to scratch. Alert now, she stopped snoring to listen. What were they talking about? It didn’t sound good.
“I want to warn her!” one of them burst out.
“You can’t! It’s forbidden! Tá sí sa leabhar ag an bhfiach dubh,” came a lugubrious voice. When the others gasped in unison, it persisted. “The Fir-Fia-Caw claim her as foe.”
“We must wake her then!” argued her defender. Now she recognized the voice. He was the one who had kissed her.
When a few others backed him, a quarrel broke out.
“Even if we woke her, she cannot fight them. She knows nothing of charms.”
“We could tell her! If she turns her clothes inside out, puts a nail in her pocket, hangs scissors on the wall, puts a knife in the doorway – ”
“—salt on the threshold. Daisy chain tea. A horseshoe on the door—”
“—a sock under the bed. A knife under her pillow—”
“—her shoes pointed away from the bed—”
“—running water. A twig of broom. St John’s Wort—”
“—red thread tied round branch of rowan—”
“—a circle of white stones to keep her safe—”
“Enough! We cannot defy the Doom of Clan Egli. You know this.”
Laurel was fast growing alarmed. Something called the Fir-Fia-Caw were coming for her, and they didn’t sound friendly. Her newfound enemy? The raven-man? It seemed she was supposed to be unconscious, thanks to something in the cookies. But she hadn’t eaten any. That meant Ian was out for the count, as he had scoffed the lot.
Then she heard it, rising like a wind in the distance, a shriek that chilled her to the bone. As soon as it died down, another followed, and then another. She buried her head under the quilt.
The fairies themselves were squealing with fright. In a flutter of wings, they fled the room. Only one lingered to whisper in Laurel’s ear.
“Fare thee well, dear heart.”
Her champion! Then he, too, was gone.
As if released from a spell, Laurel jumped from the bed. Adrenaline coursed through her. She had to move fast. This was no dream. The danger was real. The dreadful cries were growing louder. Drawing nearer. Whatever the Fir-Fia-Caw might be, they were coming for her.
She pulled off her pajamas and turned them inside out. What else did they say? Sock under the bed. Knife under the pillow. She threw her socks under the bed, then remembered the one about pointing her shoes outward. No good, she had to wear them! When she ran into the other room, she was brought up short.
Ian lay sprawled on the sofa. The biscuits had obviously taken affect before he went to bed. He was still dressed, and his arm dangled to the floor over the book he was reading.
She rushed to his side and started to shake him.
“Ian, wake up! Something’s coming! Wake up!”
His breathing was shallow, his skin even paler than usual. An image flashed through her mind. The effigy of a knight carved on a tomb. Her anxiety was peaking. She couldn’t stop to help him. She had to make the cottage safe.
A storm was brewing outside, as if stirred up by the howls of the Fir-Fia-Caw. Gusts of wind struck the house. The thatch groaned under the lash of a downpour. Thunder roared overhead, making the doors and windows shudder.
Laurel grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and shoved it under the cushion behind Ian. There was another charm to do with knives—yes!—she put one at the door to the porch. And another to do with doorways. She ran to get the salt. She couldn’t possibly remember every item, but the more the better. The fiendish cries spurred her on.
She turned on the taps for running water. Was there something about scissors? What else? What else! A circle of white stones to keep her safe. The pebbles that lined the path! She ran out the door.
The night was pitch-black and angry. A fist of rain struck her, soaking her to the skin. Wild with panic, she raced down the path, grabbing at stones.
Shrieks erupted overhead, screeching down like missiles.
When Laurel looked up, her heart froze.
The sky was alive and writhing. Ragged shapes flew toward her, great shadows from the dark side of the moon. As they drew nearer, she saw them: giant ravens with eyes that glowed silver-white like lightning. Seven there were, with razor-edged wings and curved beaks like scimitars. Carrion birds. Flesh-eaters. The Fir-Fia-Caw.
Laurel was paralyzed with terror. There was no time to return to the house! Now she scrambled to make a circle of stones around her. Her cold fingers fumbled even as the creatures began to land in the garden.
The moment the Fir-Fia-Caw touched the ground, a harrowing change took place. With savage contortions they each unraveled to a tall and almost human form. Feathers melded together to make the black greatcoat that she remembered. As arms and legs emerged, the bird talons contracted into clawed hands. A dark layer of skin slid over the face; the beak became a sharp nose. Like a horrible budding, the broad-rimmed hat burst from the top of the head. In the final stage, the lightning-white eyes were flooded with darkness and rimmed with gold.
The first to land was the leader, to whom the next six bowed. Laurel recognized him instantly
. Her attacker at the station! The madness that stamped his features set him apart from the rest. He turned his head this way and that as he scanned the area with burning eyes. She was crouched on the ground, in the act of putting the last stone in place. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it. She had completed the circle, but it seemed so flimsy, an absurd protection against such creatures. How could she possibly be safe?
The Fir-Fia-Caw stood together, oblivious to the pouring rain, talking to each other in their croaking language. Raucous squawks trailed into mournful sighs and rattles. They wore human shape, but they were not men.
Laurel straightened up carefully, poised to run. The leader looked her way. He cocked his head sideways as if sensing her presence. Now he moved toward her. She stood deathly still, too terrified to breathe. He came so near she could have touched him. Her legs went weak, threatening to buckle, but she dared to meet his ferocious stare.
Only the shapes of the garden were mirrored in his eyes. There was no sign of her there. The fairy charm was working! His gaze glanced off her and into the distance. Turning quickly on his heels, he signaled to the others to enter the cottage.
A new bout of horror struck her. Ian! He was defenseless. They would tear him apart with their claws! She couldn’t stand by and do nothing. They had come for her, not him. She was about to step from the circle and challenge the creatures, when they jerked to a halt in front of the porch. The leader spat out harsh words. Laurel guessed what they meant. Salt. Knives. Running water. She suppressed a laugh of hysteria. The other charms were working too. The way was barred.
Did that mean they would leave?
No such luck.
The seven formed an arc in front of the house. Opening their mouths wide in a shock of bloodred, they emitted a sinister sound. The hair on the back of Laurel’s neck stood up. The drone was strangely compelling. She could sense it seeping under her skin, snaking through her bloodstream and into her brain. Her limbs began to twitch. She knew what was happening. Her mind was betraying her, commanding her body to answer their call. Against her will, her right leg began to move. She struggled to stop it. Slowly but surely her foot left the ground, ready to step from the circle.
The Summer King Page 7
