Alex Archer - The Other Crowd

“What could the prize possibly be if the spear of Lugh has been ruled out?”

“Fungus.” Wesley chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know, Annja. What I do know is that Slater charged in two weeks ago all generous and ‘let’s find the treasure,’ ensuring me I had the financing to hire a few more hands. But since he’s added the additional camp, he’s no longer providing for our side. I’ve had to scramble for funds to keep it going.”

“Why continue without the support?”

He turned a look on her that Annja knew she had given many a doubter over the years. She answered her own question before he could. “Because something could be there.”

“You never know what will turn up from the depths of history. And if someone wanted so desperately in on the other dig, then there must be something worth finding, eh?”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your focus, Annja? You spend any amount of time in the field when you’re not filming?”

“Whenever I get the chance. Medieval studies are my specialty, but I’d never pass up a chance to help on a dig. Can you use an extra hand?”

“Hell, yes. You won’t be too busy with the television show?”

“I won’t get in your way. Just want to dig about a bit, get my hands dirty. And yes, I’ll be filming segments. Okay, here’s the truth. My producer wants me to track faeries.”

“Seems to be the consensus on the disappearances.” Wesley shrugged. “Be difficult getting the other crowd on film.”

Could someone please be on her skeptical side? she thought. “I’m sure. But maybe I can help solve the disappearances. If someone is kidnapping people who are generous enough to volunteer their time for such grueling digs, I want to find out who that someone is.”

“I like you, Annja. You’re a flash of sunlight on this sorry camp. If it’s not the weather giving us headaches it’s Slater. You want me to show you around?”

“I’d love that—”

Shouting from across the way alerted Annja. Slater was stabbing a finger into Eric’s chest. Eric had wandered too close to the enemy line.

Daniel had wandered off somewhere. A sweep of the camp’s periphery did not reveal the eccentric plaid-clad Irishman. Wouldn’t a guide have explained the lay of the land to Eric? That he probably shouldn’t wander onto the other camp, which was headed by a pistol-packing director? On the other hand, Annja was already taking sides and she hadn’t begun to learn the real facts. It wasn’t like her to make off-the-cuff judgments.

She insinuated herself between Eric and Michael Slater, and asked Slater, “Now what? Your bloodthirst not satisfied yet?”

Slater stepped back and smirked a slimy grin. Wesley was right; he did look too polished to be an archaeologist. And a bit too much with the angry, tight neck muscles.

“You have no fear, do you,” he countered, “stepping in the middle of a confrontation like that?”

“I doubt it was a mutual confrontation. Are you okay, Eric?”

“No problem,” he said. He clutched the camera to his chest and didn’t look fine. His face was flushed as red as his hair.

“Don’t worry, he’s a trooper,” Slater said. “I was just blustering with him. Seems you’re the lady in charge, so I best direct my concerns toward you. No cameras on the grounds,” Slater barked. “You were not granted permission to film here.”

“Mr. Pierce already gave me approval,” Annja said. “Don’t tell me the two camps are like two separate countries. Do I need a visa to access your dig?”

Slapping a palm over the gun holster, not as a means to pull it on her but perhaps just a security reassurance, Slater shook his head.

“Does Frank Neville have say over Pierce’s camp?” she challenged.

Slater crossed his arms high across his chest. “How do you know Neville?”

“I don’t, but I’m learning more and more each minute. Like the camp was split right after Mr. Neville’s men showed up.” Aware Eric was filming over her shoulder, she raised a hand and blocked his view. “Take a break, Eric. This isn’t necessary for the show.”

“But it shows the volatile mood on the dig,” he protested. “A mood probably created by the presence of the otherworldly.”

Slater’s brows waggled. He smirked and spat to the side. “Lookin’ for faeries, then, are you?”

“No. Erm…” This assignment was so lacking in credibility. But she’d never let that stop her before, or make her look bad. “I’m here to investigate the disappearances.”

“That’d be the fair folk,” Slater offered. “Good luck with that.”

He turned and stomped off, delivering her a smirking sneer over his shoulder.

“Good luck with that,” she mocked at his back. “This is hopeless, Eric. No one will take me seriously if they think I’m tracking faeries.”

“You won’t be saying that when we have them on film. I can feel the eerie mystical presence in the air.” He scanned his camera around to her face.

“Can you?” She sighed. “Good for you, Eric. The land is steeped in the mystical. I guess I need to relax and let it take hold of me, too.”

“Want to do the introduction now?”

“Save it. I want to walk the area with Wesley and see what’s what.”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

“No, you are not my shadow—at least, not right now. You can film the countryside and get some pretty shots of the green rolling hills. The sunset is really enhancing the vivid greens and the sky as amazing. That’ll look great on film. Then skip down to the river and scan for mermaids if the mood takes you. But I don’t need you until I need you. Got that?”

He tilted his head aside from the viewfinder to eye her. “You see? There is an aggressive mood hanging over us all.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Annja stalked off, wondering if there was something to what Eric had said. When normal people became aware of danger such as a gun-wielding dig director, they went on guard without realizing it. It was simply an innate reaction to the feeling of uncertainty. Who wanted to work a dig with that kind of menace in the air?

No matter. She shouldn’t allow the volatile mood to creep into her psyche so easily, and would not.

A fine mist veiled the camp, dulling the air, but not Annja’s determined attitude. Surely, if faeries did exist, they would be here in bonny Éire. The green was so intense it hurt her eyes. Rolling soft grass, untouched by dig tools or rut-forming tires, undulated up a distant hill and was topped by a scatter of scraggly pine trees.

Breathing deeply, she concentrated on centering herself. She had let anxiety get the better of her. A deep inhale scented salty and fresh, mixed with earth and gasoline fumes.

“Petrol,” she muttered, correcting her language for the country.

“This way.” Daniel appeared, muddy fedora tilted to shadow his eyes. “I’ll show you about the camp. You’ve already met both dig directors.”

“Yes, and Wesley offered to show me around.”

“He’s nursing his wounds and letting the females fuss over him. This won’t take long. You’ve seen most of the layout already.”

His footsteps were fun to follow. Toes pointed forty-five degrees outward, Annja tried to fit her steps into his prints in the drying mud but her balance wavered from the task.

The sight of a little old lady in her peripheral view intrigued her. One was never too old to work a dig as long as they were eager. But Annja suspected perhaps the woman was a local who brought food to the crews, which was always a blessing when that happened.

She caught up to Daniel’s long strides. “Who is that?”

“Ah? Me mum. She visits digs on occasion. We get a lot in the area. Wanders the countryside and riverbank endlessly. Always looking for geegaws and collectibles, she is.”