The Other Crowd

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.

“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.