Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

“What’s the focus of the dig?” she asked.

“I don’t know. They supposedly found some kind of spear. A faerie spear.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t grumble, Annja, you know you want to do this. Your breathing is fast and I can picture you eyeing your hiking boots and boonie hat right now.”

“The only reason I’m breathing fast is—”

He didn’t need to know about her nightmare. Doug had no clue about her connection to Joan of Arc or that she wielded a mystical sword.

“One hour, and I’ll meet you at the airport with tickets in hand.”

“Deal.” She hung up and shook her head.

She didn’t care that she’d just accepted the joke assignment of the century. The opportunity to hang around a dig on Irish soil was not to be missed.

A YELLOW CAB DROPPED Annja off near the departures gate at Terminal 4. She’d packed light. A backpack with laptop and GPS, assorted survival gear and a small suitcase were all she needed. Thanks to both her careers—archaeologist and television host—she was never sure what kind of hotel or living arrangements waited her arrival, and was accustomed to sleeping under the stars—tent or no tent—if need be.

Doug stood on the sidewalk, beaming. His dark curly hair defied the existence of grooming products. Tall and gawky, his jeans hung low on his hips. Though he looked like he’d just jumped off the short bus in front of the high school gym, Annja knew he was just a little younger than her. Men always did come to maturity later than women. She just had to keep repeating that one whenever she spoke with Doug.

Beside Doug, a slender man with pale complexion and a shock of shoulder-length red hair sported an armload of camera equipment and a couple nylon bags slung over a shoulder. He was dressed for adventure in khakis and a long-sleeved shirt.

Annja nodded and received Doug’s shoulder-slap manhug. “Here’s your ticket,” he said. “I’ve already arranged for someone to meet you and drive you to Ballybeag. Thanks, Annja, this show is going to rock.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s this guy?” She cautioned the accusing tone of her voice. She had showered and thought to erase the sleep from her foggy brain, but maybe not so much. “Where’s Michael, the usual field cameraman?”

“Sick with strep. This is Eric Kritz.” Doug managed a high five with Eric, even though the redhead was loaded down with equipment. “He’s the new guy and a buddy of mine.”

A buddy of Doug’s? That meant he was young, self-involved and one step away from a frat-party bender, Annja thought.

Eric lunged forward with an enthusiastic handshake. Annja had to tug to get her hand back. “I’ve watched all the episodes of the show,” he said. “I’m a huge fan of yours, Miss Creed.”

“Thanks. You can call me Annja. How old are you?”

“Twenty.” He didn’t sound entirely sure of it, though the reply was practiced enough.

Annja swung a disbelieving look at Doug. “Are you serious? Sending me across the sea with a…” The word boy stuck on her tongue. Good thing, too. That was no way to start a working relationship. Hell, she just needed to sleep off the aftereffects of the strange dream. “Has he got any experience?”

Doug wrapped an arm around her shoulder and steered her a few paces away from the giddy cameraman. To their left, cabs zoomed by and intermittently deafened Annja. “Not much. But you have to start somewhere, right?”

“I can’t believe this. You’re sending me across the ocean with Doogie Spielberg? Doug, I’m in no mood to train a new guy. I don’t even know how all that camera stuff works. Does he?”

“He does. His father owns QueensMark studios out of Manhattan. They do independent films, documentaries and stuff. Eric has been following in his father’s footsteps since he could toddle. He’s very good with the camera. He knows the drill and accompanied his father on a stint last summer in Kenya. He’s enthusiastic, but more important, he likes you.”

Annja rolled her eyes.

“He can take care of himself. He’s a big boy.”

She glanced back at the guy, who looked like he belonged in the front row of a classroom dodging spitballs from the bully. Not even a shade of five-o’clock shadow.

“You owe me one for accepting this assignment,” she muttered.

“Duly noted. You go and do your job. Sleuth out the facts and bring home faerie footage. Like I said, I arranged for a buddy of mine who lives near the dig to meet you and be your guide.”

“Another buddy? How old is he? Twelve?”

“Annja.” Doug pressed a dramatic hand over his heart. “You wound me. All my twelve-year-old friends are tucked in with their Transformers blankies right now.” He winked.

Doug may appear erratic and selfish on the outside, Annja thought, but she could not ignore his savantlike work ethic that had made Chasing History’s Monsters a success.

“His name is Daniel Collins,” he explained. “He’s more a friend of Eric’s father. Eric spent a couple of weeks at his home a few summers ago during a business trip with his dad. I understand the man’s a laidback dude and you’ll get along with him, I’m sure. You get along with everyone, Annja.”

“Guides are good.” Of course, the country was small, about the size of Indiana, but a guide would free her to worry about the assignment.

Missing students. Mystery surrounding an archaeological dig. And…faeries.

Hey, she was a professional. She could handle any assignment Doug lobbed at her. As soon as she got a few more hours of sleep.

“You tell her about Daniel?” Eric asked as he joined them. “Daniel’s a bit of an eccentric,” he said to Annja, “but more normal than any other person on earth. Trust me on that one. But whatever you do, don’t get him talking about wine unless you’ve got hours to spare. The man is really into wine.”

“I can dig it.” She shoved her hands in the front pockets of her cargo pants and eyed Eric. Eager puppy dog waiting for a bone.

“Annja, this story is going to rock!” Doug said.

Her producer’s enthusiasm wasn’t capable of lifting even a hint of a smile on her face. Assessing her tense muscles and stiff posture, she realized she was anxious. Not only was she voluntarily traveling three thousand miles to chase after Tinkerbell, now she’d acquired puppy-sitting duties, as well.

“First sign of trouble, I’m sending him home,” she said as she snatched the tickets from Doug’s hands and strode into the airport through the sliding glass doors.

His cell phone volume was turned off, yet he’d set it to flash with an incoming call. Garin Braden leaned across the black silk sheets and eyed the caller ID. A familiar, yet unwelcome, name was displayed. He groaned and sat back. A flute of champagne was cradled in his hand, and he ran his fingers through the long blond hair that spilled over his bare chest.

“No bubbly for you?” he asked.

“I’ll be up in a bit,” she said in a husky drawl seasoned with just the right touch of determination. Her head disappeared beneath the sheets.

The red flashing LED had ceased and now the phone vibrated across the marble nightstand. That indicated someone was leaving a message. He didn’t want to talk to the old man at this particular moment.

Slamming back the champagne, Garin set the glass on the nightstand next to the phone that began to blink red again. “Give it up, old man.”

Another message vibrated the cell phone dangerously close to the edge of the nightstand. Just when the phone teetered and threatened to drop to the marble floor, it flashed and Garin snatched it and flipped it open.

“What?” he growled. “This had better be good, Roux.”