Charlaine Harris: Death's Excellent Vacation

PAT was having the time of his life. The couple, Roddy and Mary O’Connor, had taken him to a pub in Ballyveane for dinner and had invited him to stay the night on their farm. They were full of ideas for places he should visit.

“You should climb the Rock of Cashel and see the Ring of Kerry and of course, Newgrange, where your people buried their dead,” Roddy told him.

“Don’t you mean our people?” Pat asked, as the car turned onto a dark country lane.

“Oh, that was long before our time,” Mary laughed as she put on the brake. “Grab him, Roddy, and don’t take your eyes off him!”

Before Pat knew what was happening, Roddy had twisted around in the front seat and taken hold of his leg.

“Did you think you’d fool us with that cinema accent?” he crowed. “We knew what you were the minute we laid eyes on you. Now, take us to your pot of gold, or we’ll tip you headfirst off the cliffs and into the sea.”

“I can’t believe this.” Pat was more angry than concerned. “Did my cousin Jerry put you up to this? Or those fruitcakes at the fairy ring? You can’t believe I’m a leprechaun.”

“You won’t get us that way, either.” Mary said. “You’re one of the Little People all right. Who else would wear fine leather shoes to thumb a ride?”

Pat’s hand went to the door handle. Mary had started driving again, but they were going slowly enough for him to leap out and not be much hurt. Roddy didn’t seem to have a good grip on him, but Pat found it hard to move his legs to break free. It was as if someone else were holding him. Suddenly, he was overcome by a primal panic.

“Look out!” he screamed. “You’ll hit that sheep.”

For a split second, Roddy let go. Pat took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes shut, and, without even trying, vanished.

He pushed the car door open and rolled out, crawling and then running to get away. Roddy and Mary shouted and stomped after him a few feet before giving up. They were still blaming each other at the top of their lungs when Pat reached a grove of trees and relaxed enough that his body reappeared.

“Damn.” He realized. “I left my backpack in the car.”

He still had his wallet and passport, though, and the town couldn’t be that far away. If he could get his bearings, he should have only a mile or two to walk. Pat sighed. He supposed it was time that he accepted the truth, however nonsensical it seemed. He wasn’t the reincarnation of Brian Boru, but of silly little men with stubby pipes and green trousers who spent their lives making shoes.

His life in America was looking better and better.

The night was chilly, although the drink from the pub was still warming his veins. Pat struck out in the direction of the town. He hoped to bypass the dirt road and hit the main one, just in case Roddy and Mary were still hunting for him. The terrain was rough and pocked with mud puddles. He kept feeling that someone was at his elbow, guiding him. Nevertheless, Pat slipped time and again, falling into the bog and clambering up until he was soaked and filthy.

Just when he had decided to curl up in the first dry spot he came across, Pat caught a scent he recognized, a peat fire. He followed his nose.

In the middle of the gorse was a small house, covered in sod. It reminded Pat of a hobbit hole. The door was low enough that even he would have to stoop. He smiled to himself. Leprechauns. The real Fir Bolg must live here, not exiles spending their holiday role-playing. Maybe it was time he embraced his heritage. He knocked.

The door creaked open. A wizened face peered out. “Begorra! If it isn’t Cousin Patrick! We heard ye were in the land again.”

They knew his name! Now Pat understood the feeling he had had all evening of someone lurking next to him. He grinned. “I’ve lost my way. May I come in?”

The door opened wide and Patrick entered, feeling that he’d finally found the real Ireland. He couldn’t wait to rub Jerry’s nose in it.

The inhabitants of the hut were two little men, both looking older than time. They both seemed thrilled to see Patrick.

“You’ll be with the tour,” the first one assumed correctly. “You people hardly ever come out to find us. We’ve always been hurt by that. Such a long time for a family to be apart. It’s an honor to have you. Look, Seamus, it’s Patrick O’Reilly, home from America, and looking to find the family!”

“Is it now?” The other man had been sitting facing the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, but now he turned and smiled.

With a rush of horror, Patrick saw that the man’s teeth were shining copper, filed to razor-sharp points. His heart froze as he understood. These weren’t relics of mythology, nor were they modern, assimilated leprechauns. The little men were really the Oldest Ones. There was not even a veneer of civilization in them, only ancient, primal needs and hate.

Patrick rolled off his stool and tried to crawl for the door.

They were too quick for him. Each man took one of Pat’s arms. As they forced him to the floor, Pat marveled at the strength in their shriveled bodies. They bent over him, cackling in delight.

“Home from America, the renegade bastard,” Seamus said, as he raised his knife. “And just in time for supper.”

Toni L. P. Kelner is the author of the “Where Are They Now?” mysteries, featuring Boston-based freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper, and the Laura Fleming series, which won a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She’s also a prolific writer of short stories, many of which have been nominated for awards. Her story “Sleeping with the Plush” won the Agatha Award. This is the third anthology Kelner has coedited with Charlaine Harris, and she looks forward to many more. Kelner lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs.

FROM as early as I could remember to the year I turned eighteen, my parents and I spent part of every summer at Bartholomew Lake. We always stayed in a hotel made up of lakeside cabins, which was naturally called Lakeside Cabins, and spent our days swimming in the lake, eating fried fish, and making at least one expedition to the local amusement park.

So when I decided to get out of town to get my head together before making a decision that would affect the rest of my life, it only seemed natural to head for that same lakeside hotel. My psychologist would probably have suggested that I was trying to recapture my lost girlhood, but I hadn’t seen my psychologist since the attack that nearly killed me.

While I was in the hospital recovering, a delegation had come to tell me the truth about the thing that had attacked me. After that, I stopped going to therapy. Though my guy had done a great job helping me deal with the loss of my parents, I didn’t think he’d have much insight into the loss of my humanity. In fact, he’d probably have tried to put me away if I’d told him I’d become a werewolf.

I spent most of the first part of the week at Lake Bartholomew swimming and sunning and eating ridiculous amounts of food. My days were freakishly normal, something I hadn’t felt since the attack. I didn’t mind being alone. I hadn’t been alone much since the local pack took it upon themselves to start easing me into my new life. Naturally they hadn’t wanted to risk me losing control, but since I’d gotten the hang of making the Change, I thought I was entitled to some downtime. Alone.

But by the end of the week, the pack was concerned that I was lonely. In fact, several of the packs in the area were concerned, and they wanted me to know how concerned they were. I’m sure their feelings had nothing to do with the fact that the annual Pack Gathering was to be held on the next full moon or that I’d be choosing my pack affiliation at that Gathering. Surely it was only interest in my welfare that led to the phone calls, cheery letters, and cards with cartoon wolves, plus three flower arrangements, two fruit baskets, one cookie bouquet, and a box of frozen steaks. There were countless e-mails, Facebook messages, and tweets. It was flattering at first, but since the point of the vacation was to get away from it all, the flood of attention got old fast.