Artifact Page 12

  “I’ll see what I can do to secure the window. I’ll meet you down there.”

  I made my way down the steep stairs, regaining my composure as my feet slowly touched down on each step. Though the stairs looked old and creaky, they were in fact solid and noiseless.

  The pub was still deserted, save for two figures huddled together at the bar. A face turned toward me and met my gaze. The face froze. A visible shudder ran across it. The old man recoiled as if he had seen a ghost. He let out a rattling gasp.

  “The dark fayrie,” he whispered in a hoarse voice. “She’s returned.”

  Chapter 23

  The eyes that stared across the room at me were the deepest of gray, and half-hidden in the shadows of bushy white eyebrows. Thin, weathered skin stretched over the cheekbones below, bracketing a narrow, crooked nose streaked with broken blood vessels. The sallow skin stretched down into wrinkles surrounding thin lips, which remained slightly parted after his outburst.

  “The dark fayrie,” he repeated, elbowing his friend. “The bean nighe.”

  A fairy? I wasn’t going to hazard a guess at the second thing he said.

  “Nae, nae,” the other man said. “Is a wee lass, is all.”

  “What do ye ken,” the first man snapped back at his friend, but only taking his eyes off of me for the briefest moment.

  “Yer scarin’ the poor lass, Fergus,” the second man said, turning toward me on his barstool. He smiled through the scruffy light beard that framed his face. “Miss, Fergus dunnae mean nae harm.”

  This man’s features were less ragged than those of his friend, though his visage had been weathered by the years as well. His eyes were almost as black as Douglas Black’s, though I caught a hint of sapphire in them. His unkempt sandy brown hair ran wild on his head, but his eyebrows didn’t overshadow his large, friendly eyes. The two men wore workmen’s clothes.

  Uneven light and shadows emanated from the recently lit fire. I walked up to the bar in the dancing light.

  “She’s no bean nighe,” the friendly one said to Fergus. “Buy ye a drink for yer trouble, miss?”

  “Aye, aye,” Fergus jumped in, the movement of bushy white eyebrows reflecting his enthusiasm. “Anythin’ ye like.”

  “Ach,” the second man said, chuckling to himself. “For luck, eh, Fergus?”

  Fergus shot him a dirty look. “Angus,” he said. “Go find Dougie to pour the fayr—the lass a nip.”

  “Thanks,” I said, joining them at the bar. Fergus and Angus? They must have been the locals Rupert had mentioned.

  Fergus tried to shrink back even further, but the bar prevented the movement. Angus stood up and pulled out a barstool for me. I sat down, and he turned away.

  “Dougie!” he shouted toward the kitchen. His voice was louder than I expected based on his soft tone moments earlier.

  “Did you say you thought I was a fairy?” I asked.

  “Yer good folk,” he said, giving me a gracious smile.

  Douglas Black appeared at the bar. “All right?” he said. “Ready for a second round already? Oh, Miss Jones! What’ll ye be havin’?”

  “Best Scotch ye have fer her, Dougie,” Fergus said.

  Douglas Black’s face showed his confusion. I took it as a good sign he wasn’t used to seeing Fergus and Angus sweet-talk the ladies.

  “Fergus thinks I’m a fairy,” I explained.

  Mr. Black broke into a hearty whoop of laughter. Fergus’ eyebrows shot up in terror. Mr. Black laughed even harder. He wiped his eyes, then reached below the bar. He pulled out a wooden box.

  Fergus and Angus looked at each other and nodded in appreciation. Mr. Black removed a bottle of amber liquid with rose-colored flecks floating near the bottom. The bottle was almost as wide as it was tall. The label was handmade, with a name written in a script I couldn’t make out. Mr. Black poured a generous shot.

  “Fergus is afraid you’ll cast a spell on ‘im if yer offended, Miss Jones,” he said, handing me the glass.

  Fergus frowned at Mr. Black.

  “Yer deep in fayrie land,” Mr. Black continued. “Banshees ‘n bogarts ‘n kelpies. Real fayries. Not make-believe Tinker Bell. Fayries is wee, but not tha’ wee.”

  “So it’s not just the land of the Picts?” I asked.

  “Lots o’ history in these parts,” he said. “But I dunnae think yer a wee one. Go on, have a taste. I willnae be offended if yer wantin’ somethin’ else.”

  I raised the glass to my lips. The liquid smelled of earthen peat. It was a comforting scent, like a fire in the hearth. I took a hearty sip, and savored the warm earthy flavor on my tongue.

  Fergus’ eyes bulged as I swallowed with a smile on my face. Whatever I was drinking was no bathtub concoction. I took another sip, wondering how I’d missed out on the pleasures of whisky.

  “Dunnae mind the boys,” Mr. Black said with a grin. “They’re harmless. Here most nights for supper and a nip. I need to be headin’ back to the missus, but holler if ye need anythin’.”

  “I told ye,” Fergus said, elbowing Angus in the ribs. “Only a fayrie lass could drink as tha’.”

  Angus stroked his fuzzy beard.

  “What kind of evil fairy do you take me for?” I asked.

  “Not evil,” Fergus said hastily. “Miss...Jones, is it?”

  “Please call me Jaya.”

  “Yer an archaeologist, Miss Jones, eh?” Fergus asked. “We’ve seen many a thing ‘round these parts. Not wicked things, mind ye. Powerful things.”

  Fergus paused to take a gulp of the dark beer he was drinking. I got a better look at his nose as he tilted his head back. It wasn’t crooked, after all. A thick scar ran down his nose at an angle.

  “Ye dunnae ken yer roots, Miss Jones?” Fergus asked setting down his glass. “About the fayries?”

  “I don’t what?” I asked.

  “Is an American lass, Fergus,” Angus said. “They dunnae ken history.”

  “Aye, is it so?” Fergus asked.

  “Oh, you mean I don’t know fairy history,” I said. “It’s true. I’m afraid my fairy lore is a bit lacking.”

  “Lore,” Fergus scoffed. “Ye hear the bird, Angus?”

  “Aye,” Angus said, sipping his beer.

  “Wh’eel, lass,” Fergus said, “ye’ve got a bit o’ catchin’ up to do.”

  Angus whispered something to Fergus that I couldn’t hear.

  “Ach,” Fergus said, shooing Angus away. “Yer nae my bean nighe,” he said to me, enunciating slowly.

  “Fergus,” Angus said.

  “I’m gettin’ there, Angus! The bean nighe is the washer at the ford. The banshee’ll be back soon enough to claim my life, the way she claimed the life o’ my wife. Se do leine, se do leine ga mi nigheadh....”

  “When it’s yer time tae die,” Angus added softly, “ye’ll see the fairy hag at the stream, washin’ yer bloody shirt. She doesnae show herself before midnight.”

  “Half eleven,” Fergus snapped. “Fer my wife, as I ken.”

  I wondered at the logistics of that legend. Why would anyone be walking by a stream at midnight?

  “I look like this death fairy?” I asked.

  “Ach!” Fergus exclaimed. “I did nae mean—”

  “She is tha’, Fergus,” Angus said with a calm shrug. “Is nae wrong to speak the truth.”

  “Her hair is dark,” he said in a whisper. He lifted a trembling hand and pointed directly at me. “And her skin is fair with the tint o’ the sea.”

  “Dunnae frighten the poor lass, Fergus,” Angus said. “I dunnae think there’s such thing as an American fayrie.”

  “She’s nae American,” Fergus said.

  “Are ye listenin’ to her speak, Fergus?”

  “California,” I said. “My accent. It’s mostly from California. I’m not your bean nighe
.”

  “She’s the fayrie spirit of a wee lass who’s died in childbirth,” Angus said. He spoke in his usual measured voice that contrasted with his friend’s. He spoke the words so peacefully, so softly, that it was almost as if he were part of the legend himself. “She’s to wash the shirts o’ the doomed, ye see.”

  I shivered in spite of the Scotch warming my body.

  “Ye’ll see the lass,” Angus said, “at a burn not far from yer home.”

  “And ye’ll ken,” Fergus said. “Ye’ll ken.”

  The two men nodded to each other.

  “Did she appear to the man who died last week?” I asked.

  They froze.

  As sure as I wasn’t a bean nighe, I was certain they knew something.

  “A foreigner,” Fergus said, shaking his head. “The man who died last week was a foreigner. It doesn’t take them the same way.”

  “He was English,” I said. “Not a—”

  “Not Scottish, is whot I’m sayin’.”

  “No warning signs for him, then?” I asked.

  Again Fergus and Angus glanced uneasily at each other. The effects of the Scotch dissipated as blood pumped through my veins.

  “What kind of warning did he get?”

  Angus glanced at Fergus before speaking.

  “They dunnae ken what they’re lookin’ fer,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  A glimmer of light reflected off my glass. I looked over my shoulder and saw through the window that the sun was sinking low in the sky. Still, not a soul appeared. Where was Lane?

  “All sorts o’ tales,” Angus said. “The stones o’ the Picts. The hollow hill o’ the fayries. The tools of the Tuatha De Danann. They willnae find what they seek. Some things are nae meant to be found.”

  “They’re diggin’ up our cliffs,” Fergus said, banging his nearly empty pint glass on the bar. “No good can come from tha’.”

  Were Fergus and Angus so upset about the desecration of their cliffs that they would kill to stop it?

  But Rupert was only one of many members of the crew. And hardly the most important one.

  “Did something bad happen to him because of their work?” I asked.

  “Is nae my place to question the wrath o’ God,” Fergus said.

  “Archaeologists have reasons for digging where they do,” I said. “It preserves our history—your history.”

  “Ye be careful, Miss Jones,” Fergus said. “Ye dunnae want to fall into a fayrie ring out along our cliffs.”

  “What do you—”

  “Is best left alone!” Fergus growled.

  He gasped and clasped his hand over his mouth as soon as he uttered the exclamation. “Ach, no!”

  He slid off his barstool, muttering something about four-leaf clovers to protect him from the curse of displeased fairies. He disappeared out the door of the pub.

  “Dunnae take offense of ol’ Fergus,” Angus said. He smiled, revealing teeth much whiter and more intact than his friend’s. “Dunnae worry about all the talk o’ fayries. Fergus thinks he was pulled into a fayrie ring. He’s nae been right since ‘is wife passed on. He fell into the bottle for years afterward. He lost those years to the drink. Not to the fayries.”

  “But he’s your friend,” I said.

  “Ye understand, Miss Jones.”

  “You two come here every night?”

  “The walk does us good. Now that Sally’s not here to cook for ‘im, an old bachelor can convince ‘im to come ‘round for Dougie’s wife’s pies. Right good cook, she is.”

  “Does anyone else come by?” I asked, looking around the deserted room.

  “B’sides the archaeologist lot?” He nodded. “On the weekend evenin’s it can be difficult to find a seat. An’ Dougie’s wife does a right good Sunday roast. B’sides that, Dougie’s wife’s lady friends, and the hill walkers might do.”

  “Fergus warns the hikers about the fairy rings?”

  “He might do.” Angus rubbed his beard. “Hill walking isnae fer the faint o’ heart.”

  He explained that fairies were known to mislead travelers in these parts. I took that to mean that the trails were confusing. The four-leaf clover Fergus had been mumbling about was one of the protections against malevolent fairies. Another was turning your clothes inside out. Was that supposed to confuse a fairy, I wondered? Putting a knife under your pillow would also protect you.

  “I like that last one,” I said.

  “A practical one, are ye?” he said with a wink.

  I tried to turn the conversation back to the archaeologists, but Angus ignored my hints. He instead told me about Lammastide, the holiday in the summer when fairies would walk in the open from hill to hill. The date was fast approaching.

  “Thorn trees on a hill will show ye where ye’ll find a fairy home,” he said. “Dangerous places, those can be. Dangerous places indeed. There’s one on the way to their Pictish stones.”

  He turned away from me, glancing at the door of the pub. “Dougie!” he called out. “Another round here.”

  Douglas Black emerged seconds later. Angus ordered two more pints of bitter for himself and Fergus. I asked for another Scotch, but something new this time.

  As Mr. Black poured our drinks, the door opened behind me. I felt a burst of cool air and heard the sound of a train in the distance.

  Lane walked through the door, with Fergus next to him. I had been listening intently to Angus’ stories, but I thought I would have noticed Lane slipping downstairs and outside.

  Lane’s hand was on Fergus’ shoulder. The latter nodded vigorously, his head of thick white hair bobbing as he did so.

  “What’ll ye have?” Mr. Black asked Lane.

  “Looks like the crew are on their way as well,” Lane said.

  At this news, Fergus and Angus took their drinks and shuffled to a corner table next to the fire. Lane took a seat next to me at the bar.

  “Fergus certainly thinks highly of you,” he said.

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Play along,” Lane said under his breath.

  “With what?”

  “We’re about to make you indispensable to the crew.”

  The large door creaked open. It was time to meet an attempted murderer.

  Chapter 24

  When that door to the pub swung open, I knew who I was looking at. Tan work boots, worn khaki trousers, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. And the finishing touch: a fedora. The man who stepped through the doorway was wearing enough dust and sweat to be a hands-on archaeologist, but not enough to make him unapproachable. He must have been at least fifty years old, but his broad chest indicated he wasn’t one to delegate physical labor.

  He took off the hat as he entered the pub, revealing flaxen hair sprinkled with white. I knew I should have been frightened, or at least on guard, with what he might have done. Instead, I was impressed.

  “Drinks all around, Douglas,” Professor Malcolm Alpin said with an English, rather than Scottish, accent. “We’ve made a discovery today.”

  “Right, gov,” Mr. Black said, and got to work pouring drinks.

  Knox was right behind the dig’s leader. He was slightly rounder around the middle than I remembered. Otherwise he seemed to be the same affable Knox. He and Rupert could have passed for brothers except for the fact that their accents didn’t match. Both shorter than average with brown hair and blue-gray eyes, their striking difference was that Knox had working-class roots.

  He stopped right inside the door when he saw me. “Jaya?”

  Behind Knox was someone I wasn’t expecting. His girlfriend, Fiona. An archaeology graduate student, she must have been there for the dig as well. And Rupert hadn’t told me. My jaw tightened. He knew Fiona and I didn’t get along, and he hadn’t wanted to deal with my re
action. She blamed me for encouraging Knox and Rupert’s scholarly shortcuts, and was convinced I was the one who suggested Knox plagiarize a section of his dissertation. I hadn’t known what Knox intended to do. But even if I had, I could never have stopped either Knox or Rupert from doing anything.

  Fiona came to an abrupt stop beside Knox. I heard her sharp intake of breath as she saw me. In tan slacks and a matching fitted sweater, she looked as if she had stepped out of an upscale clothing catalog rather than out of a hole in the ground.

  Fiona’s hair is as black as mine. That’s where our similarities end. She keeps her hair long and flowing, compared to my practical bob. The look fits with her ethereal eyes, which are a translucent shade of the palest blue imaginable. Curves follow her tall frame from head to foot. If ever someone looked like an attempted murderess….

  I’m just saying.

  “What are you doing here?” Fiona asked. It was not a friendly question.

  “Jaya!” Knox said again, his shock having worn off. This time his greeting was accompanied by a bear hug. “What are you doing here?” His voice was curious rather than hostile.

  “Hi, Knox,” I said into his shirt. “Rupert didn’t tell me why, but he invited me.”

  “Did you hear?” Knox asked, pulling back from the hug but leaving his hands on my shoulders. His forehead creased in a pained expression.

  “Douglas Black told us,” I said. “We must have already been on our way. It’s such a shock.”

  The unfamiliar man at the rear of the group cleared his throat. He stepped around Knox, shooting him a dirty look. He carried two bags, one slung over each shoulder. His body sagged under their weight.

  “Looks like we need some introductions,” the professor said. He extended his hand to me. “I’m Malcolm Alpin. Please call me Malcolm.”

  “Jaya Jones,” I said, returning his firm handshake. “This is my boyfriend, Lane Peters.”

  “I see you know Knox and Fiona. And this is Derwin McVicar.”

  The younger man’s shoulders weren’t actually sagging. Derwin was the tallest man in the room; he had been slouching to avoid hitting his head on the door.