Death's Excellent Vacation (34 page)

Pat did his best to pick up the chants and gestures, mostly because he knew his parents would grill him. The rest of the people in the room were practicing as if their lives depended on it. Once again, Pat longed to get out and find the Ireland of his dreams. He wondered if that was the reason this remote site had been chosen. Out in the wilds of Connemara, surrounded by treacherous bog, with no car and a cell phone that only worked in the States, the only way to leave was to walk and hope to find some sort of habitation that would let him call for a taxi.

He was getting close to risking it. Looking around him at all the idiots solemnly waving their hands about while reciting words in a language a thousand years dead, if not entirely made up, Pat felt like a duck in a flock of loons.

That afternoon he spotted his cousin Jerry sitting at a table with a bunch of people from the invisibility seminar. They were on the other side of the bonfire, so Pat was sure that it was a trick of the light that made them fade in and out. Just to be sure, he took his glass and went over to join them.

“Hey, Patrick!” Jerry greeted him heartily. “Isn’t this the most amazing holiday ever? Who’d have thought we were magical? Won’t they get a laugh out of this at Biddy’s when we get back?”

“You aren’t going to let our friends know we’re leprechauns!” Patrick was aghast. “Don’t we get enough guff about our size as it is?”

“But look what I can do.” Jerry concentrated on his arm and it slowly vanished, leaving a pint mug floating in midair. “They’ll be buying me drinks all night, just to watch.”

“And none of this seems strange to you?” Pat asked, gesturing at the happy commotion around them.

Jerry scratched his nose with his perceptible hand. “Not really,” he decided. “It feels like family, only with a few twists. I mean, when you think about it, this answers a lot of questions about us. Like why we’re so short and can still drink everyone else flat. And why my dad won’t even polish his own shoes. If that was your slave job, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of it. Although,” he added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Sheila told me that Ferragamo’s real name is Fergus. What do you think?”

“I think you’re all barking mad,” Pat thumped his glass down. “Or I am. Either way, I’ve had enough.”

“Pat, what’s wrong with you?” Jerry asked. “This is what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it? We’re back in our homeland, among our people, and learning really cool tricks. Not to mention really hot cousins distant enough to date. Loosen up!”

“This isn’t what I dreamed of.” Pat was nearly in tears. “I’m trapped inside a double circle in the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen nothing of the country. Some old fart tells me my ancestors were shoemaking slaves instead of heroes. I don’t know how you do that disappearing thing, and I don’t care. I came here to soak up the real Ireland, to come home at last. And you all seem happy to camp out for a while, learn some parlor tricks, and go back home.”

“Well, yes, that sums it up,” Jerry grinned. “Haven’t you been listening? We’re proud of what we came from. Real leprechauns, who’d have thought it? But our family had the gumption to get on the boats and get out. We all went places where we could be free, even marry out, like Kate and the milkman. I want to be back in Cleveland in time for baseball season. I love it here, but it’s not my home.”

Disheartened, Pat went back to the trailer. In the distance he could make out fiddle music that indicated that some people were sticking to the stereotype and dancing a jig.

He had another week before the flight back. If he left the group now, there was still time for him to do all the proper things that returning Irish did. He wanted to kiss the Blarney Stone and try the holy water at Knock and stop at every pub between Dublin and Galway. There was no reason why he shouldn’t. He still had a stack of euros in his wallet. Plenty to have fun on.

He scribbled a note to his parents, telling them he’d meet them at Shannon to catch the plane. Then he tossed some clothes into his backpack along with a toothbrush and razor. He’d hitch a ride to the nearest town and take a bus from there. Maybe he’d even find some real O’Reillys who’d take him in.

There were still a few hours of daylight left. Pat followed the dirt road the bus had taken. As he left the encampment, the fiddle music stopped as if cut off with a knife. Probably taking a whisky break, he thought. If he had turned to look, Pat would have seen the circles of trailers shimmer and slowly vanish in the slanted sunlight.

He hiked about a mile to a paved road. It wasn’t long before a car came along, with a middle-aged couple in it. The driver slowed and then stopped. The woman gave him an appraising look.

“You’re young to be out on your own,” she decided.

“I’m older than I look,” Pat smiled.

The woman’s eyes lit up. “Oh, an American!” She nudged her husband. “Roddy, the lad’s come from America. Are you home to see the family?”

“That I am.” Pat climbed into the backseat. He felt oddly crowded, as if there were someone beside him. He must still be affected by invisibility classes and peat fumes. Deliberately, he spread out his arms and announced to the world at large, “I’ve been waiting for this all my life.”

IN the camp, Eileen and Michael had just found their son’s note.

“Heaven preserve him!” Eileen exclaimed. “Whatever made him do a crazy thing like that? Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is?”

“The poor boy.” Michael shook his head. “His head’s been so stuffed with fairy tales that he couldn’t cope with real fairies. I have to go after him.”

“You’ll never find him in the dark,” Eileen clutched her husband’s arm. “Especially since he doesn’t want to be found. He’ll be heading for civilization, anyway. In the city he’ll only run into muggers and wanton women. If he can get there, he should be all right until morning.”

Her words sounded hollow to Michael, but he saw the sense in them. “We should talk to the organizers,” he said. “This must have happened before. They’ll have a plan.”

“Yes, of course, helicopters or BOLOs or something,” Eileen agreed, wringing her hands. “My poor, foolish boy!”

PAT was having the time of his life. The couple, Roddy and Mary O’Connor, had taken him to a pub in Ballyveane for dinner and had invited him to stay the night on their farm. They were full of ideas for places he should visit.

“You should climb the Rock of Cashel and see the Ring of Kerry and of course, Newgrange, where your people buried their dead,” Roddy told him.

“Don’t you mean
our
people?” Pat asked, as the car turned onto a dark country lane.

“Oh, that was long before our time,” Mary laughed as she put on the brake. “Grab him, Roddy, and don’t take your eyes off him!”

Before Pat knew what was happening, Roddy had twisted around in the front seat and taken hold of his leg.

“Did you think you’d fool us with that cinema accent?” he crowed. “We knew what you were the minute we laid eyes on you. Now, take us to your pot of gold, or we’ll tip you headfirst off the cliffs and into the sea.”

“I can’t believe this.” Pat was more angry than concerned. “Did my cousin Jerry put you up to this? Or those fruitcakes at the fairy ring? You can’t believe I’m a leprechaun.”

“You won’t get us that way, either.” Mary said. “You’re one of the Little People all right. Who else would wear fine leather shoes to thumb a ride?”

Pat’s hand went to the door handle. Mary had started driving again, but they were going slowly enough for him to leap out and not be much hurt. Roddy didn’t seem to have a good grip on him, but Pat found it hard to move his legs to break free. It was as if someone else were holding him. Suddenly, he was overcome by a primal panic.

“Look out!” he screamed. “You’ll hit that sheep.”

For a split second, Roddy let go. Pat took a deep breath, scrunched his eyes shut, and, without even trying, vanished.

He pushed the car door open and rolled out, crawling and then running to get away. Roddy and Mary shouted and stomped after him a few feet before giving up. They were still blaming each other at the top of their lungs when Pat reached a grove of trees and relaxed enough that his body reappeared.

“Damn.” He realized. “I left my backpack in the car.”

He still had his wallet and passport, though, and the town couldn’t be that far away. If he could get his bearings, he should have only a mile or two to walk. Pat sighed. He supposed it was time that he accepted the truth, however nonsensical it seemed. He wasn’t the reincarnation of Brian Boru, but of silly little men with stubby pipes and green trousers who spent their lives making shoes.

His life in America was looking better and better.

The night was chilly, although the drink from the pub was still warming his veins. Pat struck out in the direction of the town. He hoped to bypass the dirt road and hit the main one, just in case Roddy and Mary were still hunting for him. The terrain was rough and pocked with mud puddles. He kept feeling that someone was at his elbow, guiding him. Nevertheless, Pat slipped time and again, falling into the bog and clambering up until he was soaked and filthy.

Just when he had decided to curl up in the first dry spot he came across, Pat caught a scent he recognized, a peat fire. He followed his nose.

In the middle of the gorse was a small house, covered in sod. It reminded Pat of a hobbit hole. The door was low enough that even he would have to stoop. He smiled to himself. Leprechauns. The real
Fir Bolg
must live here, not exiles spending their holiday role-playing. Maybe it was time he embraced his heritage. He knocked.

The door creaked open. A wizened face peered out. “Begorra! If it isn’t Cousin Patrick! We heard ye were in the land again.”

They knew his name! Now Pat understood the feeling he had had all evening of someone lurking next to him. He grinned. “I’ve lost my way. May I come in?”

The door opened wide and Patrick entered, feeling that he’d finally found the real Ireland. He couldn’t wait to rub Jerry’s nose in it.

The inhabitants of the hut were two little men, both looking older than time. They both seemed thrilled to see Patrick.

“You’ll be with the tour,” the first one assumed correctly. “You people hardly ever come out to find us. We’ve always been hurt by that. Such a long time for a family to be apart. It’s an honor to have you. Look, Seamus, it’s Patrick O’Reilly, home from America, and looking to find the family!”

“Is it now?” The other man had been sitting facing the fire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone, but now he turned and smiled.

With a rush of horror, Patrick saw that the man’s teeth were shining copper, filed to razor-sharp points. His heart froze as he understood. These weren’t relics of mythology, nor were they modern, assimilated leprechauns. The little men were really the Oldest Ones. There was not even a veneer of civilization in them, only ancient, primal needs and hate.

Patrick rolled off his stool and tried to crawl for the door.

They were too quick for him. Each man took one of Pat’s arms. As they forced him to the floor, Pat marveled at the strength in their shriveled bodies. They bent over him, cackling in delight.

“Home from America, the renegade bastard,” Seamus said, as he raised his knife. “And just in time for supper.”

Toni L. P. Kelner is the author of the “Where Are They Now?” mysteries, featuring Boston-based freelance entertainment reporter Tilda Harper, and the Laura Fleming series, which won a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She’s also a prolific writer of short stories, many of which have been nominated for awards. Her story “Sleeping with the Plush” won the Agatha Award. This is the third anthology Kelner has coedited with Charlaine Harris, and she looks forward to many more. Kelner lives north of Boston with author/husband Stephen Kelner, two daughters, and two guinea pigs.

FROM as early as I could remember to the year I turned eighteen, my parents and I spent part of every summer at Bartholomew Lake. We always stayed in a hotel made up of lakeside cabins, which was naturally called Lakeside Cabins, and spent our days swimming in the lake, eating fried fish, and making at least one expedition to the local amusement park.

So when I decided to get out of town to get my head together before making a decision that would affect the rest of my life, it only seemed natural to head for that same lakeside hotel. My psychologist would probably have suggested that I was trying to recapture my lost girlhood, but I hadn’t seen my psychologist since the attack that nearly killed me.

While I was in the hospital recovering, a delegation had come to tell me the truth about the thing that had attacked me. After that, I stopped going to therapy. Though my guy had done a great job helping me deal with the loss of my parents, I didn’t think he’d have much insight into the loss of my humanity. In fact, he’d probably have tried to put me away if I’d told him I’d become a werewolf.

I spent most of the first part of the week at Lake Bartholomew swimming and sunning and eating ridiculous amounts of food. My days were freakishly normal, something I hadn’t felt since the attack. I didn’t mind being alone. I hadn’t been alone much since the local pack took it upon themselves to start easing me into my new life. Naturally they hadn’t wanted to risk me losing control, but since I’d gotten the hang of making the Change, I thought I was entitled to some downtime. Alone.

But by the end of the week, the pack was concerned that I was lonely. In fact, several of the packs in the area were concerned, and they wanted me to know how concerned they were. I’m sure their feelings had nothing to do with the fact that the annual Pack Gathering was to be held on the next full moon or that I’d be choosing my pack affiliation at that Gathering. Surely it was only interest in my welfare that led to the phone calls, cheery letters, and cards with cartoon wolves, plus three flower arrangements, two fruit baskets, one cookie bouquet, and a box of frozen steaks. There were countless e-mails, Facebook messages, and tweets. It was flattering at first, but since the point of the vacation was to get away from it all, the flood of attention got old fast.

It wouldn’t have surprised my former psychologist a bit when I decided to retreat further into my past, which is how I found myself at Pirate Dave’s Adventure Cove.

The amusement park was as campy as ever, starting at the gate with the ticket taker’s red-and-white striped shirt and the jaunty kerchief on his head. The entrance to the park was a giant pirate ship shaped out of concrete, with sails permanently hoisted and a Jolly Roger flying proudly above. The graffiti on the sign was new, though. Though an effort had been made to remove the spray-painted words, it was still easy to see that somebody had X’ed out the word
Adventure
and scrawled
Haunted
instead. I briefly considered texting the woman who’d presented the “Other Supernatural Species” slideshow at Werewolf Orientation to ask if ghosts were real but decided it might lead to a support group rushing to Lake Bartholomew to be there for me.

The posted park rules—no running, no bad language, no cutting in line—were the same as always. Well, nearly the same. For one, they’d added a rule about turning off cell phones during performances and, for another, instead of “Ship’s Articles,” the list was labeled “Keep to the Code.” I wondered how much the
Pirates of the Caribbean
movies had added to the park’s popularity.

The influence of the movies was even more obvious when I made it inside the park, where Pirate Dave himself was standing atop an ersatz crow’s nest to greet arriving guests. In my day, Pirate Dave had been a dapper Captain Hook type, with a red coat and abundant black curls. This version was an homage to Johnny Depp, complete with guyliner and scruffy braids. He even wobbled a bit as he bowed to the ladies, though that might have been because the platform was getting a bit rickety.

Still, I waved and enjoyed the appreciation in Pirate Dave’s eye when he bowed in my direction. After all the diets I’d endured and the exercise regimens I’d abandoned, it had taken being turned into a werewolf to give me the figure I’d always wanted. Though my denim shorts weren’t outrageously short and my tank top showed only a modest amount of cleavage, I knew I looked good. So it was gratifying to finally be noticed by Pirate Dave.

I’d had crushes on quite a few Pirate Daves over the years, particularly the one who’d worked the late shift when I was in my teens. Neither a clone of Captain Hook nor of Captain Jack Sparrow, the nighttime Pirate Dave had worn a snowy white shirt with tantalizingly tight breeches. His auburn hair had been just long enough to pull back into a ponytail with a leather thong, and he’d had a way of looking at me that had made my teenaged hormones rise like a stormy tide.

The current Pirate Dave just didn’t compare. In fact, as I wandered through the park, I decided that very little in the place compared with my memories. Admittedly it was larger than it had been, with several roller coasters and thrill rides added, but two of the biggest draws were closed for repairs, and most of the others could have used a fresh coat of paint. The crew members were cranky, and the place just looked grubby. No wonder the crowds were smaller than I’d expected at the height of the season.

Still, I enjoyed not having to stand in long lines for rides, and the games were a lot more fun now that I had werewolf strength and speed. Though I didn’t particularly need a plush sea monster or mermaid, I couldn’t resist the temptation to shock the stuffing out of the pirates manning the games when I repeatedly knocked the milk bottles off the table and hit the gong at the test-your-strength booth seven times in a row. When I got bored, I handed my prizes to the nearest little girls and went in search of junk food.

As the day wore on, I told myself that the only reason I was sticking around was to watch the parade at dusk, with its fanciful floats, appropriately attired musicians and dancers, and cheap plastic doubloons thrown to the crowd. It had nothing to do with a yen to see if the night shift Pirate Dave was as good-looking as the one I remembered.

In years past, the parade had paused in front of the Shiver-Me-Timbers Ice Cream Shoppe, which was about halfway through the route. That’s when Pirate Dave would announce that it was time to choose a Sea Queen to join him on his voyage. Candidates would gather in front of the float, and he would toss a bucketful of coins. Most of them would be plastic, but one was supposedly an actual doubloon, and the girl who caught it would be crowned Sea Queen and get to ride on the float with Pirate Dave for the rest of the parade. Though it was supposed to be random, the Sea Queen was invariably a toothsome wench, as Pirate Dave would proclaim, never a gawky teenager in braces like I’d been.

I also told myself that I’d only stationed myself at Shiver-Me-Timbers because it was the best place to see the parade, but I couldn’t help noticing that quite a few other women were hanging around nearby. Maybe this meant that Pirate Dave was worth waiting for.

As night fell, the parade started and I got my answer. As I’d remembered, there were elaborate floats, dancing wenches, and a pirate band. Plus they’d added a lively calypso group. I enjoyed it tremendously, despite the delay when one of the floats broke down and a new tractor had to be brought out to tow it for the rest of the route. Finally Pirate Dave arrived in command of a spectacular reproduction of his ship, the
Brazen Mermaid
.

I think my heart actually stopped for a second. Unlike the rest of the park, Pirate Dave was just as gorgeous as ever. Maybe more so—surely he hadn’t dared to wear breeches that tight before. When the float stopped and he announced that he was seeking a Sea Queen, I joined the throng of eager women without thinking.

I was watching his every movement, as were all the straight women in the crowd, but now I had werewolf-sharp senses, so when Pirate Dave held up the coveted golden doubloon, I could tell he was only pretending to toss it into a bucket of plastic coins, when he’d actually palmed it. I could also catch the way his eyes scanned the available women, and that tiny hesitation when he chose his target. The lucky gal—a tall, buxom blonde in a halter top—was just behind me. Knowing that, I knew exactly when he threw the doubloon toward the blonde and used my better-than-human reflexes to jump at just the right moment to snatch it before she could.

I held it triumphantly over my head, smiling when I heard the blonde mutter, “Bitch!” After all, it was truer than she knew.

As for Pirate Dave, he was shocked but hid it quickly and said, “Arr, a toothsome wench indeed. Join me, my Sea Queen!”

The crowd cheered as I made my way to the float, where a pirate flunky waited to help me up the rope ladder.

“Permission to come aboard?” I asked.

“Oh, the boardin’ will come later,” Pirate Dave said with a roguish grin, and the crowd roared.

Once I climbed the ladder, Dave put his arm around my waist and pulled me to the front of the float.

“And what be your name?” he asked.

“Joyce.”

“Queen Joyce, then.” To the crowd he proclaimed, “All hail Queen Joyce, the fairest maiden to ever sail the seven seas!” The flunkies led the crowd in a chorus of “Arr!” and the float started moving again.

As we waved to the crowd, Pirate Dave said, “That were a worthy catch you made.”

“I bet you say that to all the Sea Queens.”

He laughed and dropped into the kind of small talk he probably made with all the Sea Queens. What was my home port? Was I traveling with a crew, or was this a solo voyage? Had I ever seen a port to rival the Adventure Cove? I answered appropriately, but I was finding myself increasingly distracted. It wasn’t because Pirate Dave wasn’t even better-looking up close—he was, with charisma to burn. But there was something odd about his scent. It wasn’t a hygiene issue or overdependence on men’s cologne, though I’d halfway expected Old Spice. It was strangely exotic, with a metallic tang. Short of sniffing him openly, I couldn’t figure out any more than that.

When we reached the end of the parade, Pirate Dave helped me down from the float, then looked deeply into my eyes. “Join me for the fireworks tonight,” he said with no trace of piratical lingo.

I hesitated, put off by the near command. “Actually I’ll probably be gone by then.”

“No, stay. Come to me at the pavilion.” His voice was oddly urgent.

I tried to decide if he was pushy or just extremely intense before finally saying, “I’ll try.”

He looked as if he intended to attempt to convince me further, when a park employee ran up and gestured wildly. I took that as an opportunity to slip away.

My first instinct was to head directly for the parking lot, but then I reconsidered. How often did I get a chance to spend time with a teenage crush, or at least a new version of him? A little necking with a pirate might be just the thing to wrap up my vacation. If Pirate Dave tried to go further than I wanted to, he’d find out that I was a whole lot stronger than I looked.

I grabbed a jumbo bucket of popcorn, or “parched maize” as it was listed on the menu of the snack bar, and wandered through shops. The crowds had thinned considerably once the parade was over, which was the opposite of the way it used to be, when people would come to the park when it was too dark and cool for swimming. Another one of the big rides had just gone out, and the people who’d been on board when it shimmied to a stop weren’t shy about complaining in ways that thoroughly violated the Code.

I had a good mind to talk to management myself. The trash cans were overflowing, the tables at the restaurants were sticky with spilled soda, and if I stepped in one more wad of gum, I was going to Change into something angry. The place had always been immaculate—was it that hard to find good help?

I was scraping gum off my sandals on the curb near the Kraken, the largest of the park’s roller coasters, when I saw a shadowy figure sneaking around where it wasn’t supposed to be. The Kraken had a long track with plenty of turns and two loop-de-loops, and the whole area was landscaped so there were plenty of places to hide. Some of the lights had gone out, so it was quite dark around there and a human wouldn’t have noticed, but I could definitely see somebody.

I probably should have called for a park guard, but I hadn’t seen any security people since the parade, and it would have been foolish to make a fuss if it was just somebody retrieving a ball cap that had fallen off during the ride. Besides, I was bored and had nothing better to do. So after making sure nobody was close enough to see me, I jumped over the low fence and followed. At least I tried to, but in between stepping around a bush and dodging a power pole, I managed to lose him and found myself behind the shed that housed the ride’s high-tech workings. I looked around for the intruder but decided he’d gone and was about to leave myself when I sensed movement behind me. Before I could turn, there was a sickening pain in my head and I fell.

I woke instantly aware, the way I had since being Changed. I was lying on a thin pad of some sort, like a futon only considerably mustier, and it did little to protect me from the chill of the concrete floor. It was dark, even to my eyes, so I could see next to nothing, and all I could smell was machinery oil and buttered popcorn. It was the popcorn that convinced me that I was still in the park.