CHAPTER 22

  

We arrived at the Fog & Thistle Inn close to five o’clock. A modest wooden sign announced a pub and rooms for rent. The Tudor building looked like a home. The heavy door creaked as we opened it. It led into a small pub with a bar and half a dozen tables. An unlit fireplace filled most of one wall. A small stone gargoyle perched at its edge.

The room was eerily empty. A few seconds after we entered, a man appeared behind the bar. He stepped into the light from the shadows of a room behind the bar, revealing black eyes and ginger hair. The juxtaposition was jarring at first, but as he welcomed us with a full Scottish brogue, his cheery demeanor was unmistakable.

“Douglas Black,” he said. “Can I offer ye a pint to fill yer belly, or a bed to rest yer head?”

Lane explained that we were there to see the archaeologists, and Mr. Black was happy to give us his one remaining room. As we filled out the standard form with passport numbers, Mr. Black—the name that seemed more fitting for him than Douglas—explained that he and his wife were retired other than running the small establishment. They lived in the section of the house on the ground floor behind the pub. The rooms of the inn were on the next floor up. His wife cooked a set meal each night for the guests.

“They should be headin’ back within the hour,” Mr. Black said. “Their stones is down the way.”

“Is the site of the dig easy to find?” Lane asked.

“Tis at that. But ye might as well wait, or ye’ll pass ‘em as they come.”

“It’s not far?”

“The professor invited me to visit the site,” he said proudly. “Only a quarter of an hour’s walk to get there. They’re all stayin’ with me and the missus. Except for Mr. Chadwick. He met with an accident last week. Went over the cliffs. Reckless driving.” He shook his head sadly.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “And nobody else has left?”

“Left?”

“I thought perhaps someone might have been so distraught—”

“Nothin’ like that. These are professionals.”

“What about visitors?” Lane asked.

Mr. Black thought it over for a moment before shaking his head. His face clouded over as he turned his attention back to me.

“No,” Mr. Black said, looking me straight in the eye. “But you be careful, young miss. It’s not only cars that lose control. The winds ‘round here will pick you right up and toss you out into the sea before you know what’s got you. Especially someone as wee as yourself.”

His eyes remained locked on mine in the moments of silence that followed.

“Well then!” He slapped his palms together. “Fancy a pint before ye head up to yer room?”

“I think I’ll go freshen up first,” I said, grabbing Lane’s elbow before he could answer.

Mr. Black handed me the keys and pointed us up the stairs.

At the top of the steep wooden stairs we emerged into a narrow hallway with a slanted ceiling.

“How can they all still be here?” I said, shuffling dejectedly down the hall. “I was so sure it was one of them in San Francisco.”

“It’s too bad he didn’t see anyone visiting the crew. But look—” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Even though we’re in the middle of nowhere, full reception. It wouldn’t be hard to secretly give an accomplice a call.”

We found our room at the end of the hall.

“Cozy,” I said, stepping inside. It wasn’t much bigger than the sleeping car into which Rupert had pulled me.

The slanted ceiling cut across the room. A single bed had been pushed under the lowest part of the slope. A child-size bureau stood next to the end of the bed, and a chair was tucked underneath the small window opposite the door.

“I’ll take the floor,” Lane said, dropping his bag on the hardwood floor.

“Chivalry?” I asked, setting down my pack on the small surface of the bureau. It was a good thing we’d both packed lightly. “We should flip a coin or something.”

“I’m not being chivalrous,” he said. “I’m being tall. Look at the size of the bed. There’s no way I’d fit in that.”

I looked closely at the bed. Because it filled up such a large portion of the room, it gave a false impression of being at least a standard twin bed. I sat on the edge of the bed, sinking down several inches. I looked up at Lane. His head nearly touched the ceiling.

“At least take the quilt,” I said.

“Will do.”

“I’m bad at sitting still,” I said, bouncing back up.

“I noticed.”

“I’m going to go downstairs to the pub. Are you coming?”

“But I thought you said—”

“I needed a minute to compose myself.”

Lane’s eyes were an unreadable dark gray behind his glasses as he stood blocking the beam of light from the small window.

“I didn’t like what he said to you about those cliffs either,” he said. His voice held the trace of some strong emotion, but it was so faint that I might have imagined it.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to spook us. He doesn’t know we’re worried about someone who would actually send us off that cliff.”

“But maybe he’s worried about something, too.”

“I wonder what he—”

A low rumble sounded a fraction of a second before the sound exploded. The small window shook violently, trying to escape from the frame. The thick glass pane rattled so loudly I was surprised it didn’t break.

Lane whirled around. The explosive thudding sound came again.

“Wind,” Lane said, exhaling loudly. “That dangerous Scottish wind.”

I sighed. “I’m going down. I want to be there when the crew gets back from the dig.”

“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.”