Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

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.”

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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