Sign of the Throne: Book One in the Solas Beir Trilogy (7 page)

He returned her smile. “No, I still like it. Maybe even more than I used to.” He speared a bite of chicken and popped it into his mouth as proof.

“I’m sorry they didn’t have any chopsticks for you,” Margaret said, placing her hand on top of his. “I suppose it’s not the same with a fork.”

“It’s still delicious,” David said, grinning.

Margaret nodded and resumed her conversation with David’s father.

David tried to pay attention, but found his thoughts wandering. His mind kept going back to the same thing: the cabana girl.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her standing in front of the inn, the way the sunlight had looked in her hair, the way her eyes had locked on his. Well, he thought she’d been staring at him—but then again, he’d thought the same thing when he saw her by the pool, and that was the problem—maybe the connection he had felt was all one-sided. It seemed like she had been about to say something, but then she’d gone back inside without a word. He worried that she had overheard Michal’s comment. He should have said something in the girl’s defense, but his mind had gone blank. And what would he have said? He didn’t even know her name.

He had stopped by the pool the next day, thinking maybe he’d say something, introduce himself at least. But she wasn’t there. She probably only worked there on certain days, but he wasn’t sure how to find out. He was tempted to ask the staff at the front desk, but he didn’t want to look creepy. And he sure wasn’t going to ask Michal or her friends. Maybe he’d bump into the girl again
, and he’d know what to say.

“Abby.”

Abby’s eyes flew open and she gripped the bat. She looked frantically around the room, trying to make her mind focus.
Ciaran. Siobhan. Rowan.
She reached out for Ciaran to make sure he was all right as she scanned the room for the other two children. Siobhan and Rowan were still in their cribs. The kids were all sleeping peacefully, and there was no sign of the shadow thing.

“Abby,” the voice repeated.

Fighting her disorientation, Abby was able to recognize the voice and make sense of what was happening. The bedroom door was open and there were two figures approaching her. “Cassandra?” she asked.

“Yes, Abby. It’s us,” Cassandra said. “What’s going on?”

“What time is it?” Abby asked.

“A little after ten thirty,” Riordan replied. “You were asleep. What’s with the bat and all the lights on in the house? Did something happen?”

Abby shivered, reliving the moment the creature had jumped at her. How could she have fallen asleep after that?

“Here, come downstairs and we’ll talk,” Cassandra suggested, dimming the lights in the room. “I’ll make hot chocolate.”

“No, no we can’t…you don’t understand…we can’t leave the kids alone. Not in the dark,” Abby insisted. She stared at the spot in the hallway where the creature had disappeared. Her grip on the bat tightened, turning her knuckles white.

Riordan frowned, eyeing the baseball bat. “Why not?”

“Riordan, sweetheart, could you please bring up some hot chocolate? I’ll stay here with Abby. Then we’ll sort this out,” Cassandra suggested, turning the lights back on and walking over to where Abby was sitting against the twins’ dresser.

Abby saw Riordan shoot Cassandra a worried look, but Cassandra nodded reassuringly, and he left the room.

Kneeling next to Abby, Cassandra pried the bat from her hands. There was an extra blanket on top of the dresser; Cassandra took it and wrapped it around Abby’s shoulders. “It’s okay, sweetie,” Cassandra whispered as she sat down next to Abby. “Everything’s okay.”

At that, Abby began crying, and Cassandra wrapped her arm around her. They sat in silence until Riordan returned, carrying a tray with three steaming mugs. Abby mumbled her thanks as she took her mug. The warmth of the cup felt good
in her hands, and the sweet drink was comforting.

“Okay then. Can you tell us what happened, Abby?” Cassandra asked.

“You
won’t
believe me,” Abby resisted.

“I promise I’ll—we’ll both—keep an open mind about whatever you have to say. We’ll take it very seriously,” Cassandra said.

Abby studied their faces. Cassandra’s eyes were kind, and Riordan looked worried, but ready to listen. She told them everything—the creature, the weird dreams about the shadows and David, and the white doe. “I don’t understand what it all means, but I am so…so scared. Your children are in danger. We might all be. I know that thing wanted to hurt me, and I don’t know why it didn’t,” she said.

Neither Cassandra nor Riordan answered. From the thoughtful looks on their faces, both seemed to be considering the story. Abby hoped they believed her.

“So…what do you think? Have I lost my mind?” she ventured.

“Not necessarily,” Riordan said. “When I was doing research for my book, I read about something similar to this. There are stories in Scotland, and in Ireland too, folk stories about faeries and other creatures. In Iceland, they are called the
huldufólk
, ‘the hidden folk.’ There are lots of legends about magical tricksters who can change their appearance to fool humans, sometimes for their own protection, sometimes to hurt people, and sometimes just for their own amusement. A lot of these old stories were cautionary tales passed orally from generation to generation throughout the villages in the countryside as a warning to leave faery folk alone. Most of these creatures were considered beneficent, although some were evil. But some people disregarded the warnings—either because they didn’t believe in faery tales, or because they saw some reward in pursuing the creatures—rumors of treasure or having a wish granted. Either way, it didn’t usually end well. Or so the stories go.”

“So, by tricksters, you mean leprechauns?” Abby asked. She felt calm now, her curiosity eclipsing her fear. In spite of the strangeness of the situation and the inherently irrational topic, Riordan’s rational approach and unruffled tone of voice were comforting, helping her disassociate from her nightmarish encounter.

“Yes—and no,” Riordan answered. “Sure, leprechauns were part of the stories, and certainly are a popular icon in our society, what with St. Paddy’s Day, green beer, the pot o’ gold, Frosted Lucky Charms, and all that. And they did have a nasty reputation for being tricky. But no, I’m thinking of something else. There is a kind of hobgoblin called a
phooka
, which often appears in Irish folklore and is seen as a trickster—mostly a benevolent one, pulling harmless pranks, or even warning humans of impending danger. It seems to appear in a number of forms—as a shadow, smoke, or a variety of animals, all with black fur: cats, rabbits, goats, bulls…there even seem to be tales of similar shape-shifting creatures in South America that appear as jaguars. In many of the stories, like the ones about the
talasam
in Bulgaria, these creatures seem to prefer making homes in dark places where they are less likely to be disturbed: caves, attics, basements…” He smiled at Abby. “Perhaps they have even been the bogeyman in your closet or the dust bunny under your bed.”

Abby found herself smiling back. She took another sip of hot chocolate. Riordan and Cassandra had already finished theirs.

“The creatures definitely seem to have a dark side though, and in some cultures are considered evil spirits.” Riordan frowned. “There’s
El Cucuy
in Mexico, a monster said to kidnap and eat children who won’t go to bed. And in Belgium, there is a cannibalistic shape-shifter that changes from human form to that of a black dog. It’s called
Oude Rode Ogen,
or ‘Old Red Eyes.’ Kind of scary, considering what you saw.”

Abby nodded, remembering those red eyes staring at her. Putting her mug down, she pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Cassandra put down her mug as well and slipped her arm around Abby again.

Riordan studied Abby’s face. “Is this
too
scary? Should I continue?”

“I’m okay,” Abby said. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Riordan said. “I almost hate to though, because the myths get even scarier.”

Abby smiled weakly. “Bring it on.”

Riordan laughed. “All right, but remember, you asked for it. In some of my research, I found tales of predatory behavior toward sleeping people, and some of the attacks seemed almost vampiric in nature. But it’s hard to tell where the legends end and fact begins. For example, there is a similar superstition about the aye-aye, a rare black lemur from Madagascar. It has these large, bat-like ears and a ghoulish face, and the middle finger on its hands has a long claw for digging out bugs from trees—kind of a creepy-looking thing. Combine its looks with a total lack of fear of humans, and you can see where people got the idea that the aye-aye creeps into homes at night to pierce human hearts. The unfortunate irony is that it is a harmless creature that is killed on sight, and it is on the verge of extinction just because it looks scary.”

“It sucks to be an aye-aye,” Abby said. “What did you mean about the attacks being vampiric? As in
actual
vampires?”

Riordan shook his head. “No, not exactly. Have you ever heard the term ‘hagging’?”

“No,” Abby said.

“Well, you know what a hag is though, right?” Riordan asked.

Abby nodded. “A witch. An ugly, old woman witch.”

“Yes. The term comes from Newfoundland and refers to a witch, the old hag, but the phenomenon is worldwide, ranging from Canada to
South Asia.” Riordan’s face lit up—he seemed to be in his element now, enjoying the opportunity to converse about folklore, gruesome or not. “There are legends from all over the world talking about attacks on sleeping people, and there are many names for it—the nightmare, the succubus, being ridden by a witch. In Mexico, it is referred to as
subirse el muerto
, or ‘the dead climb on top of you.’ The attack usually starts with a rustling sound or footsteps, and then the person sees a horrifying shadow being. The victim is unable to move and feels pressure all over their body, but especially on their chest and face, making it difficult to breathe. In some cases, the attack is so intense that the person suffocates and dies, and there is no evidence of the cause—only the fact that the person died in their sleep. Those who survive say they felt like their breath was being sucked away.”

Cassandra raised her eyebrows. “Is this related to that old wives’ tale about cats sucking away babies’ breath?”

Abby studied her. If anyone were going to be skeptical, it would be Cassandra, given her scientific background. Riordan was the one who liked ghost stories.

“Well, that
is
an old wives’ tale, but it’s possible that it’s related. Maybe that story has its root in hagging, if similar to what Abby observed, these beings can shape-shift into cats,” Riordan said. “There has been some documentation regarding hagging—something called sudden unexplained death syndrome that occurred among Hmong refugees in the United States in the 1970s.”

“SUDS? The acronym for that is SUDS?” Cassandra interrupted. She was grinning and shaking her head in disbelief. 

“I’m serious, Cassandra,” Riordan said. “Anyway, Abby, the theory is that the Hmong had certain rituals and offerings to keep such beings at bay. But, during the Vietnam War, when they were displaced from their homes and became refugees, their way of life was disrupted and they were unable to make the traditional offerings for protection and blessing, and that’s when the attacks began.”

Abby shuddered. “If all that’s true, I am never going to sleep again.”

“Riordan, didn’t you tell me when you were a kid visiting your aunt here, that each evening she used to put out weird ‘offerings’ of milk and honey for the neighborhood cats?” Cassandra asked.

“Yeah. I do remember that. It’s been a long time since I thought about it, and when I was a kid, I thought she was just a crazy old lady. But I think tonight has given me new insight. I should ask her about that. I haven’t seen her do it since we’ve lived here,” Riordan said.

“You know what else is weird,” Cassandra said. “In class, I was discussing correlation and causation—the idea that one thing may be related to another, but does not necessarily cause it. I was using Newcastle Beach as an example—that this neighborhood has higher rates of students graduating high school and completing a college degree than the rest of Santa Linda, and how this is related to higher family income and housing prices in the community, but doesn’t cause them, and vice versa. And one of my students asked me about cats. She’s a volunteer at an animal shelter, and she said there were three times more stray cats in Newcastle than in all of Santa Linda.”

“That’s odd,” Abby said.

Cassandra nodded. “Isn’t it, though? So I used that as an example. Sometimes there are weird correlations that show a pattern, but have nothing to do with each other—like intellect and shoe size, or an increase in car wrecks and the occurrence of sun spots. But now I’m thinking, what if the stories are true? What if these shadow things, whatever they are, masquerade as stray cats? And what if people put out these offerings in exchange for protection and increased prosperity? I mean, you could certainly say that this community is blessed in a number of ways—even with fertility rates. I’m willing to bet we have a higher than average occurrence of twin births than the rest of Santa Linda, fertility treatments notwithstanding.”