The Summer King (14 page)

It was her chance to flee. She dashed up the steps and back through the passageway. The fissure shone like a beacon ahead. With tears of relief she reached the opening and squeezed her way through, gasping at the splash of water. Then she stumbled out onto the shore, blinded by sunlight.

Her clothes were torn and dirty. She was limping from her injuries and staggering with shock. Her only thought was to get away, as far and as fast as possible. But she wasn’t able. The barrier of rocks bordering the cliffs was too hard to cross, called for too much effort. She collapsed on the ground.

How long she lay there, she wasn’t sure. She felt a hand on her shoulder. With a yell she struck it away and tried to rouse herself to fight.

“It’s all right,” said Ian. “It’s me.”

He was out of breath. His leather jacket looked too heavy in the sunshine. His boots and jeans were caked with sand.

“I came as fast as I could. I couldn’t get the bike across the beach.”

She saw the alarm in his eyes. Did she look that bad? She tried to stand up and almost fell, but he caught her in time.

“Lean on me,” he insisted.

She didn’t argue. She knew she couldn’t make it herself.

He grasped her around the waist and led her forward. They had only gone a short way when they both saw it was impossible.

“I’ll have to carry you,” he said.

She opened her mouth to object, but hadn’t the will. Though she was mortified, it was sweet relief to be lifted from the ground. The strain on her bruised body instantly lightened and her shock eased.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he ordered, as he tread carefully over the rocks. “It will help balance me.”

“I … I’m sorry about this,” she mumbled.

“I’m sure you are,” he said, with a grin.

She rested her head against his shoulder. The black leather was warm and soothing. She closed her eyes. He smelled of soap and aftershave. A nice smell.

Once they cleared the rocks and were on the strand, Ian picked up speed.

“You’re light as a feather,” was his only comment, “don’t you eat?”

As they approached the dunes near her grandparents’ cottage, she insisted that he put her down. His motorcycle stood in the marram grass. Dark-blue and silver glinting in the sunlight, it waited like a patient horse for its master. His helmet lay on the ground where he had apparently flung it.

“If you sit on the bike,” he suggested, “I can push you to the door.”

Laurel agreed. Though she was beginning to recover, she still felt weak. As he helped her onto the saddle, her mind raced. She was more than grateful that he had come to her rescue, especially since she had thrown him out, but what would she say to him? What
could
she say?

“Do I look like hell?”

s soon as she was in the house, Laurel went to shower. Peeling off her clothes, she inspected with horror the many cuts and bruises that covered her body. This was not fun and games with the fairies. And yet, the experience had steadied her. She was no longer struggling with mystical impossibilities. Faerie was as real as her own world, and though it had proved indeed to be “the Perilous Realm,” she now knew she could handle it.

She changed into baggy trousers that wouldn’t rub against her wounds, and another sweater of Honor’s. Wrapping her wet hair in a towel, she checked herself in the mirror. Despite her ordeal she looked quite good. There was color in her cheeks and her eyes were clear.

In the living room, she found a mug of soup left out on the table. Tomato, plain and fortifying. She had heard Ian leave when she was still in the bathroom. Sipping the warm soup, she wished she had got the chance to thank him.

When she heard the motorcycle roar back up the road, she hurried to comb her hair.

And when he came in the door, she felt suddenly shy.

“Thanks for your help,” she said. “I really appreciate it.”

He raised an eyebrow at the warmth of her tone, but said nothing as he dumped a shopping bag on the table. He started to take out various items—bandages, ointment, a packet of paper stitches. Then he removed his jacket and hung it on a chair.

“Sit down,” he said. “I want to look at that gash on your forehead.”

His voice was neutral, as if he were handling her carefully.

She didn’t think to argue. Her head was throbbing, and she was glad he was there. She winced as he dabbed the cut with antiseptic. Then he applied a strip of stitches. His fingers felt rough against her skin.

When he was finished, he tipped up her chin till their eyes met.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I was climbing over the rocks and I fell.”

He frowned.

“Liar.”

The word struck her like a dart. He watched her closely.

“Oh yeah?” she countered, but her voice faltered. She was still shaken by her ordeal. She tried to stand up, to get past him. “Look, I can’t do this right now. I’ve got to lie down.”

He blocked her path.

“What is it with you?” he said, exasperated. “You’re acting so weird.”

“Oh, and you’re Mr. Normal All-Irish Boy?”

He was about to snap back but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he shook his head.

“You’re something else.”

They had reached an impasse. She sat down again, too weak to oppose him. He took the chair near her and stretched out his legs. His manner was deliberately casual.

“Are you involved in some kind of cult?” he asked.

Laurel’s eyes widened. Her own early suspicions of what the fairies might be! She was too surprised to dissemble.

“What makes you say that?”

“Men in black. Scissors and knives. I don’t remember much from last night but I’m pretty sure I was in some kind of danger. And I’ve been in enough fights to know your injuries didn’t come from a ‘fall.’ What are you hiding? Who attacked you?”

Her bravado was beginning to crack. He was forcing her to face the truth. First the Fir-Fia-Caw and now the
boctogaí
. Two attacks, and she had only begun her search for the king! The quest was dangerous, deadly dangerous, and she was all alone.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

Laurel let out a sigh. She searched his face for something that might encourage her to confide in him. The black hair fell over his forehead, obscuring the stud in his eyebrow. Though the pale blue eyes were calm, his features looked tense, tormented. He had shown he could be kind, but most of the time he was at war with the world. Hardly someone who could hear her story.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” she said hopelessly.

“Try me.”

In the silence that fell between them, two breaths were held.

“Okay,” she said, finally. “First you have to answer a question with complete and total honesty, no matter how crazy or stupid it sounds. Do you agree?”

He looked bemused.

“I don’t make promises, but I’ll do my best to be straight with you.”

Laurel rushed out the words before she could stop herself.

“Do you believe in fairies?”

She expected him to laugh or sneer or accuse her of mocking him. She would not have been surprised if he had flown into a temper and stormed out of the room. What she couldn’t have foreseen was the way in which he was so caught off guard that he looked like someone else altogether. Someone younger and happier.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Yes or no?”

It was almost funny then. He looked abashed. His voice fell, low and embarrassed.

“Yeah. When I was a kid. In a big way. If I was really pissed off, with school or home, or if I had just got in a fight, I would go off on my own. Up Bray Head, or along the cliff path, into the mountains. I was always looking for a way out. A way in. To their world. I was always looking for them.”

He glared at her defiantly, daring her to laugh.

Instead she asked softly, “Did you ever find them?”

His mouth thinned. He was about to retort sharply when she stopped him.

“Now I can tell you.”

Without mentioning Honor, she spoke of the cluricaun, the missing king and the Midsummer Fire, the old woman on the train, then the attacks of the Fir-Fia-Caw the night before and the sea fairies that morning. Even as she detailed the events, she could see the struggle in his features, disbelief and cynicism battling with astonishment and wonder.

“I’m not the sort of person who makes this stuff up,” she finished. “You know that.”

He didn’t respond right away. Though he looked a little stunned, she could see he was thinking.

“Why are they against you?” he said, at last. “Sounds like the king’s disappearance is more than a case of missing persons. And I’d take what the cluricaun says with a pinch of salt. All leprechauns are tricksters. You can bet there’s more going on than what he’s told you.”

She almost cried with relief. He hadn’t even asked for proof!

“My feelings exactly. Granny spoke of a tragic tale. The Doom of Clan Egli? Something sad and terrible happened to the Summer King.”

“Find the missing story, find the missing king,” he agreed.

That’s when she told him the Master Riddler’s message.

His face brightened. “The Old Eagle of Achill? That explains it! Do you know how I found you? I wouldn’t have seen you from the road, you know. I was driving away when I spotted it—a great golden eagle, flying over Minaun. I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Could it be the one?”

“It must be! The golden eagle’s extinct in Ireland. They’re trying to bring it back, but nothing that big has been seen here for centuries. I thought I was imagining it. I drove the bike back to the dunes and pulled over to have a look.” He shook his head. “There was no sign of it, but that’s when I spotted you. I knew something was wrong. You were staggering around like a drunk.”

“Maybe
he
was the reason the White Lady was there,” she said, thinking about it. “It must be the same eagle.”

“Makes sense,” said Ian. “We should look for it.” She heard the “we” and was both glad and uneasy. Did she really want him involved? She could use some help. Midsummer’s Eve was only three days away, and she needed an ally, especially someone who could fight. On the other hand, he was so moody and unpredictable, and there were other complications she didn’t want to think about.

“Are you going to tell anyone you’re here?” she asked him. “I’m calling my grandparents today. I don’t want to lie to them.”

His features shut like a door.

“That’s my business,” he said coolly.

“I promised to call. They trust me.”

“Then I’ll go.”

He was pulling on his jacket when she changed her mind.

“Okay, I won’t mention you. It’s your life.”

“Then you want me to help you?”

She nodded.

“Say ‘please.’”

It was her turn to be angry but he flashed a grin.

“I’m winding you up, eejit.”

“
Eejit
? Is that a real word?”

They were back on even keel.

“We’ve got to find the eagle,” she concluded, “and fast. Time is running out. You’re the expert on birds. Where’s the best place to look? Back on Minaun?” She flinched at the thought.

“I don’t think so. It’s too open. They like to build their nests in secret and inaccessible places. The more isolated the better. There’s a stack of guidebooks here. We should take a look at them.”

“Will you do that? I want to check out the car. We’ll need it to get around.”

“We’ve got the bike.”

“Hmm,” was all she said.

Her grandfather had given her the car keys and a list of instructions concerning the old Triumph Herald parked in the shed. It was love at first sight. The little green car had silver headlights like big round eyes. The humped shape of the hood tapered back to elegant wings. Laurel checked the tires, saw they needed air, then lifted the hood to look at the engine. An old blanket had been tucked around it to keep out the damp. She checked the spark plugs, topped up the brake and clutch fluid in the master cylinders, removed the dipstick to gauge the oil. The engine was a mechanic’s dream. You could see everything in a glance. Time to warm it up. She knew the car had to be coaxed into action, and then at no more than forty miles an hour.