The Absinthe Earl Page 7

  As he studied me, something caused his grip to loosen. I seized the moment and twisted in his grasp, stumbling away from him. My eye caught the flash of lamplight along the sword blade, and I reached for it, gripping the hilt in both hands.

  “God help me,” I grunted, but the weapon weighed less than I had imagined, and my physical education at Lovelace had included fencing. I dragged the sword tip along the floor, raising sparks. Then I whirled about, brandishing it between us.

  The earl’s eyes went wide, and he took a slow step toward me. “My love—”

  “I am not, sir!” I shouted, pushing the tip of the sword against his chest. “Leave me alone.”

  “I know you,” he insisted. “Am known to you.”

  “Of course you know me!” I replied, pleading. “Lord Meath, it is I. Miss Quicksilver. Do you not see me?”

  He shook his head slowly and backed away. Then he turned and fled the chamber.

  I stumbled toward the stone slab and sank down on it, letting the tip of the sword clang against the floor. My heart pounded against my ribs, and my breaths unfurled visibly before me. The chamber had gone cold.

  I stared at the entrance to the mound, wondering how far he would wander into this darkest of nights. Wondering when he would return, and whether he would be himself again when he did. I closed my eyes.

  I am out of my depth. I belong in London.

  But that was a decision for the light of day. The hour was late. The workmen had gone, and I dared not venture out in search of Lord Meath’s tenant all alone. I let the sword fall to the floor and pressed my fingers to my temples.

  “I must wait,” I murmured. He had warned me of this, his nightwalking. It had happened before, and he had always returned to himself. I was safer here than I would be wandering the night, especially so near the River Boyne. There were sure to be bogs. I had the sword, should he return to threaten me. And mightn’t his tenant or one of the workmen come looking for us?

  I lifted the weapon again, resting the blade across my lap, and resigned myself to watching the long night. Hunger gnawed my stomach, its pleas for mercy echoing in the chamber. I studied the runes cut along the edge of the blade—ogham, an ancient Irish alphabet. I wondered again where the earl had discovered it. Tuatha De Danaan heroes had used swords like this one in the lore, but I had always assumed them to be modern embellishments—long blades had come with the Vikings, and the Danaan predated their arrival. I ran my finger over the hilt, which was bound in strips of well-worn leather, while the pommel was overlaid with engraved gold. Not a ceremonial sword, to be sure, but it had belonged to someone important.

  Diarmuid. Great Fury had been a gift to him from Angus. Diarmuid had been greatly accomplished as a fighter—there were tales of him single-handedly defeating hordes—but as Lord Meath had earlier pointed out, he was best known for his romantic exploits.

  What was his connection to Lord Meath? Could the earl be tapping into an unconscious legacy of Celtic memory? And what had I to do with that? We need only awaken, he had said. Perhaps, in his delusion, I had seemed to be someone else.

  The chill air was biting into me, and I drew my jacket and coat around my shoulders. Then I closed my eyes, resting against the wall at my back.

  The earl’s return was likely to be very awkward for us both. Would he remember what had happened? I hoped he would not. And yet, in that case, was I not obligated to tell him? I shuddered at the idea of raising such a topic. I was not overly concerned with the world’s idea of propriety, yet I feared how it would alter things between us. I feared his reaction to hearing how I had been … handled by his alter ego. He would certainly blame himself, and then where would we be? These thoughts were exhausting, as our journey had been, and it wasn’t long before I grew drowsy.

  I did not open my eyes until I felt light on my face. The sun was shining directly through the entrance to the mound, on the morning after the longest night of the year. The entrance was so narrow that with the shifting path of the sun, this could very well be the only morning when sunlight could penetrate the central chamber. This was surely significant.

  I sat up, bones and muscles protesting the stiffness of my bed. There at the foot of the stone was the earl, fast asleep. Had I dreamt it all? But on the floor beside him lay the sword.

  “Lord Meath?” I called softly.

  A shadow fell across us, and I glanced at the entrance. Someone was standing inside the opening of the mound.

  Edward

  The feral cry that woke me—the challenge and threat of it—echoed in the chamber. As I jumped to my feet, my eyes found the long shadow in the passageway, and the backlit figure that cast it. Whatever had come calling was not a man—I could deduce that much from its silhouette.

  Then for the love of God, what is it? Could it be another of the visitations? No, this creature was solid in form.

  I glanced about for my traveling companion—whom I’d all but forgotten in the strange sleep fog I was still trying to shake—and a loose stone or anything else I might use to defend us.

  “The sword, Lord Meath!” cried Miss Q.

  In that same moment, a bright flash caught my eye, and I glimpsed a blade in the swath of sunlight on the chamber floor.

  How came that here? I wondered. But the beast had started a charge down the passage, and I bent to snatch the weapon up.

  While my gentleman’s education included various forms of defense, I had never wielded a sword. Yet it felt comfortable in my hands as I raised it. Light washed over the flat of the blade, and suddenly there was a bright blue flash. The beast snorted and froze in its steps.

  The sound it made was like nothing I’d ever heard—a goatlike bleating, magnified in chorus as if it had come from a hundred beasts. It had the torso of a large man, though covered in dark fur, and its head was that of a great horned and bearded goat.

  “It’s a púca,” called Miss Q, half in wonder and half in fear. I could hear her moving behind me—the quickness of her breath, and the rustle of her clothing.

  The púca was a fairy creature right out of the stories my grandmother told before the feast of All Saints. She had warned us that dark fairies such as redcaps, water horses, and púcas gobbled up children who played too close to waterways or the ruins of old castles that dotted the Irish countryside. As a young man, I had come to view them as tales fabricated by our elders to keep us from danger.

  “Stay back, Miss Q,” I warned, gripping the sword hilt.

  “Take care, my lord!”

  The beast watched us with eyes that glowed a luminescent gold, air moving noisily through its protruding snout. Voicing another unearthly bleat, it lowered its head to charge. I swung the sword, but I misjudged the weight of it and my timing was off. The beast’s massive head caught me in the chest and flung me over the stone slab and into Miss Q. Fortunately, the tips of its horns curved backward, but still, the blow was enough to knock the wind out of me. Ignoring the panic of temporarily paralyzed lungs, I untangled myself from her and scrambled again to my feet.

  The púca stamped the floor with one hoof as breath filled my lungs again.

  “Run to the other chamber!” I shouted at Miss Q. “Watch for a chance to escape!”

  She moved to comply, and the beast followed her with its eerie lifeless gaze. Suspecting that its body would soon do the same, I raised the sword and, as it darted past me, I lunged and swung. The blade struck one of the púca’s legs, thick as a tree trunk.

  It fell with a great bellow of anger, tugging the weapon from my hand. Before I could retrieve it, the creature lurched again to its feet and began another charge.

  This time, I waited until the last moment and dropped and rolled aside, leaving it to collide with the stone wall. One of its horns snapped off a few inches from the tip, and the púca sank to the ground, stunned.

  “Come, Miss Q!” I cried, retrievi
ng the sword.

  She obeyed, flying from the other chamber, and together we fled down the passageway. When we cleared the entry, I shoved her away from me, into the arms of a very startled Mr. Deane.

  “My lord!” he cried in surprise.

  Ignoring him, I turned and began kicking at the timbers they had used to shore up the entrance.

  “Stop that, sir!” demanded Mr. Deane, forgetting himself.

  “Help me, man!” I ordered.

  “Please!” urged Miss Q. “There’s something dangerous inside.”

  Before Deane could argue, the púca made its presence known by yowling another of its eerie and awful challenges. We saw it rise, readying for another charge.

  Deane took an ax from a pile of tools near the entrance and began swinging the butt against one of the supports while I continued kicking at another. Miss Q sensibly scrambled a few steps back, and the mouth of the tunnel collapsed with a great groaning of stone on stone, enveloping us in a cloud of dust.

  The head of Deane’s ax struck the earth as he struggled to catch his breath. “What the devil was that, my lord?” The pitch of his voice was high from the shock.

  “Our folklore expert thinks it’s a púca,” I replied, wiping perspiration from my forehead with the back of my hand.

  Deane stared wide-eyed at Miss Q and made the sign of the cross. Then his gaze swung back to me. “And how’d you come by that weapon, sir?”

  “I found it inside, Mr. Deane.” Before he could protest that this was impossible, I continued, “We need to get to Mullingar with all haste. I want to be on the next train to the west. Is it possible to hire a coach on short notice?”

  “Possible,” he replied, “but not certain so close to the holiday. I’ll look to it, my lord.”

  “Thank you. We’ll wait at the cottage with the family. Will you also set a watch on the ruin and keep everyone away?”

  He gave a quick nod. “I will, my lord.”

  “And it won’t do for word to get about, Deane. We don’t want to create a panic.”

  Deane lifted his dark brows. “I heard half a dozen tales at the pub last night that’d make this one seem like child’s play. I’d wager the locals are used to such things.” He raised a hand to his chest. “Being a Cork man, city born and raised, I am not.”

  “Nor I, sir,” I assured him, though perhaps this wasn’t entirely true.

  “What do you make of it, my lord?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I want to talk it over with Miss Quicksilver, and I hope we’ll make Achill Island by nightfall. There I’ll consult with the queen. I’m leaving you in charge here in the meantime. Under no circumstances reopen this passage, Mr. Deane.”

  “Certainly not, my lord.”

  “I want you to notify me if there are other strange occurrences. You can direct a telegram to me at Westport. I’ll check on our arrival, and when we depart, I’ll hire a courier to wait there.”

  “Very good, Lord Meath.”

  “Good man.”

  A chill breeze stirred over my skin, damp with perspiration from the skirmish, and I shivered. I noticed for the first time that not only were my jacket and overcoat missing, but the front of my shirt was ripped open.

  The architect removed his overcoat. “Take this, my lord. We’ve had a frost in the night.”

  “I thank you, Mr. Deane.” I fished in my trousers pocket and handed the man a pound note.

  “It’s too much, sir,” he protested.

  “I insist.”

  As I donned the overcoat, I caught the curious glance Deane cast at Miss Q. My thoughts raced as I tried to recall what had happened before the púca appeared, but I found that I could not. Had we spent the entire night inside the mound? It certainly appeared so. I deemed it best to move along before the man thought to ask the same question.

  When I held out my arm to Miss Q, something crossed her countenance as well, but it was more like a shadow. Still, she tucked her hand into the crook of my arm, and we started across the field toward my tenant’s cottage.

  The fingers on my arm were stiff, and as we progressed through the frosted grass I began to fear that something untoward had happened. Somehow, the whole night had passed without my being conscious of it. Had I drifted off? Panic squeezed my chest as it occurred to me that I might have fallen asleep without my nightly draught. Had I nightwalked? It wasn’t unusual for me to return with my clothing damaged or even missing. I could only hope that I had left the tomb and not threatened or molested my traveling companion. I cast a sidelong glance at her profile. Her color was a little high, and those silvery tresses were in disarray, but that was not surprising considering our precipitous departure from the tomb.

  “Are you healthy and whole, Miss Q?” I covered her cold fingers with my hand.

  THE FEY EARL

  Ada

  Warmth flooded my cheeks. Maintaining my composure required all my concentration. I was relieved that we would not walk in silence, but my thoughts were so disordered, I hardly knew what answer to make.

  Start by answering the question. The rest must wait.

  “I am, my lord,” I replied.

  “I’m relieved to hear it. You must be hungry. The Doyles will give us breakfast.” His tone was solicitous and generous, which was indeed no different from usual. But we were not as usual, and I was not sure how to interpret this. I considered whether he would try to insert some distance between us. It was possible he had forgotten the events of the evening before, but he at least must know that we had spent an entire night alone inside the fairy mound.

  We walked a while in silence. I had the sense that he waited for me to speak—indeed, the entire business should have had both of us talking—but I was exceedingly uncomfortable and uncertain and could not bring myself to it.

  “Miss Q.” He stopped in the middle of the muddy track and turned to look at me, features drawn with worry. My heart thumped in anticipation. “I believe that I fell asleep last night and that I walked in my sleep. I have no memory of it, but it’s not unusual for me to wake in … in such a state on those nights when I lose myself. I am alarmed that we seem to have passed the whole night in the fairy mound. And I am racked with fear that I have said or done something to frighten or offend you. If I have, you must tell me.”

  What was I to do now? As his friend, I owed him the truth. But to explain such a thing … I knew that I could not.

  The lie that must be told would far exceed any small deception I had perpetrated thus far in my career. But having determined I was unequal to revealing the truth, I had no other course.

  “You did walk in your sleep, sir,” I began slowly, “but please rest easy. I was distracted by my work when you emerged from the other chamber. You exited from the mound, and it was dark by then and I dare not follow. I thought it best to await your return rather than walk out into the night unescorted, unsure of my destination. I waited some time, and then I, too, must have fallen asleep.”

  The release of tension in his body drained some of the charge from the air around us, but I had not yet escaped.

  “I want more than anything to believe that was the extent of it,” he said, “horrified as I am that you were forced to sleep so uncomfortably. But I sense that you are concealing something, perhaps to protect me. I insist on being held accountable.”

  “For things that happened involuntarily?” I protested. “Why, sir?”

  The expression of dread descended again. “You’re a poor liar, Miss Q.”

  My heart galloped as I rallied my faculties. Stall. “I shall take that as a compliment, sir,” I replied with a halfhearted smile.

  “I meant it as such. But please proceed to the truth.”

  I felt pinioned by his gaze. Worse than that, something of the look of the Danaan warrior returned to his eyes and brow.

  “I have told you
nearly all,” I continued. There I paused to see whether he would lead me.

  “I accosted you in some way.”

  “You … frightened me with your intensity.” As I spoke these honest words, I met his gaze.

  He closed his eyes and balled his hands into fists. “And did I harm you?”

  Relieved that he had not chosen wording that would require me to lie outright, I replied, “You did not, sir. I am well, as you see.”

  “Miss Quicksilver,” he began, opening his eyes, “I must earnestly beg your pardon. I neglected my sleeping draught last night. I hadn’t expected to doze off. I hope you will believe that my actions were outside my control.”

  “I do, sir. Of course I do.”

  “Can you forgive me?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “Come,” he said, turning again into the path. “We must talk of this further, but first a fire and a hot meal.”

  He looked more troubled than ever, and I knew that if I wished to maintain our association, I could never tell him the whole truth. Yet how could I, in good conscience, conceal such a thing?

  Moreover, was maintaining our association even advisable? Had I not better tell him the truth and flee back to the safety of the Lovelace Academy, where my greatest worries had to do with professors and exams? Never had it entered my thoughts back in London that a research trip could be so fraught with peril. And yet, had I not found exactly what I’d come looking for? More, in fact, than I had dared hope for?

  We had almost crossed the field and were now approaching a modest cottage. Lord Meath led me through a gate, pausing a moment to rest the sword against the low stone fence, and a man came out of the cottage and strode out to meet us.

  The earl introduced me to Mr. Doyle and apologized for our tardy arrival. The farmer’s confusion upon being told that we’d spent the night in the ruin was plain. Doyle told the earl that he had assumed we were delayed in town or on the road and had not thought to come looking for us. He was launching into a verbose apology, but the earl cut him short, explaining that we were sorely in need of a hot meal, if it was not too much trouble for his wife. Doyle ushered us inside and directly to the kitchen, inviting us to seat ourselves at the end of the table near the fire. He explained what was wanted to his wife, who also welcomed us and expressed concern over our ordeal.