Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

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.