I Dream of Dragons (Boston Dragons) (13 page)

“Always start with the good news,” Rory said, staring at the candles. “It softens the bad news. You don’t want the bad news waterin’ down the good news.”

Good to know.
“Okay. Here’s the good news—such as it is. We still have electricity. My cell phone is charging as we speak.”

His auburn brows rose. “Electricity but no lights?”

“Apparently, yeah. I tried the switch in my bedroom and nothing happened. That’s the bad news.”

“That is odd. Try the kitchen light. I switched it off after dinner.”

Amber took the few steps to the kitchen and tried the overhead light there. When nothing happened, she just said, “Nope.”

“Nothin’ but candlelight then.” He turned and gazed at her.

“Yup. For some damn reason, the only light in the whole apartment is from those candles.”
Those lovely, romantic candles
.

As if he could read her mind, he slid over a tad on the futon and patted the space beside him. Rory’s eyes seemed to flicker with a golden glow.
It must be from the reflected candlelight
, she told herself.

Finn and Pat landed at Logan International Airport and disembarked.

“Okay, we’re in Boston. Now what?” Patrick asked.

“Go get our luggage, I imagine.” Finn began to look for the signs that would lead them to the baggage claim area, but Pat laid a hand on his arm.

“Before we stand around waitin’ for our duffel bags, perhaps we should find a pub and talk about the next step in your grand plan.”

“I like your idea of the pub, but don’t worry about where we’re goin’. I brought a map of Boston with me.” The two of them began a stroll past the various shops and restaurants.

“Ah! I think I see a pub comin’ up on the left,” Pat said. As they neared it, he chuckled. “It’s even called O’Malley’s.”

“Must be a sign,” Finn said, grinning.

They strode in and found a small table. A waitress appeared a few moments later and took their order.

As soon as she left to get their Guinness, Pat said, “I’ll feel better after a pint, but I’d feel really grand if I could hear this plan of yours.”

Finn leaned back in his chair. “All we need to do is find Massachusetts Avenue and signs for Cambridge and MIT, and we’ll be close.”

“Oh, is that all? What about a place to stay? Are there any hotels there?”

“There’s one only a block down from Mass Ave, on Boylston Street, and several a few blocks from there if that one’s booked.”

“I see you did your homework. Thanks for that.”

“Of course. We couldn’t just land in a city the size of Boston and walk around callin’ for Shannon until our voices gave out.”

Pat chuckled. “Knowin’ how much you love her, I’d feared that was your plan.”

Finn snorted. “No. All we need to do is find a street with brownstones in view of the sign that reads Massachusetts Ave.
Then
we start shoutin’.”

Pat’s eyes rounded.

Their conversation was cut short when they spotted three small men in business suits coming toward them.

Something was more than odd about these three. Finn had a notion that he’d seen them before…one or two of them, anyway.

The couple at the next table rose and left without having finished their food—or apparently paying their bill. Their waitress bolted after them, calling for them to stop. While everyone’s attention was diverted, the three businessmen sat down at the table, and in the blink of an eye, it was perfectly clean.

Suddenly Finn recognized one of them. The leprechaun he’d caught in the cave.
Of course.
Leprechaun magic had moved the couple and cleared their table. Magic had probably turned the leprechauns’ red hair black, too.

“Shamus?” he asked.

All three of them snapped their gazes on Finn.

“You must be mistaken,” the leprechaun said. “Me name is Angelo.”

A corner of Finn’s mouth turned up.
So he’s pretending to be Italian or Spanish—with a thick Irish accent.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you look and sound like someone I met once. Someone named Shamus.” Then he pointed to Lucky. “And you look familiar too. Lucky, is it?”

The only man he didn’t recognize spoke up. “Lucky we may be, but you don’t know us.”

Little Lucky shook his head. “Those of us who are—uh, shall we say, ‘vertically challenged’ are often mistaken for each other. We must share some ancestors.”

Finn narrowed his eyes. After a long, silent stare, the one he didn’t recognize began squirming.

“It’s no use,” he said. “The lad isn’t stupid, but these disguises and excuses are.”

Shamus—or “Angelo”—whirled on him. “What are you talkin’ about? We’re businessmen from Barcelona.” Then he leaned toward his friend and spoke behind his hand. “That’s what we agreed upon.”

“And we were just supposed to eavesdrop on their conversation,” Lucky added in a loud whisper.

The one he didn’t know extended his hand to Finn. “I’m Clancy. It’s pleased I am to meet you. Unlike me friends here, I think we should work together and accomplish a common goal.”

Finn shook his hand. “I’m Finn and this is Patrick.”

Patrick leaned in and whispered, “Are these the little people you were tellin’ me about?”

Finn nodded.

Pat cocked his head and spoke directly to Clancy. “A common goal? What might that be?”

“Why, to find the drag—Ow!” Clancy reached under the table and rubbed his leg.

Finn scratched his head.

“Who or what is the drag?” Pat asked.

“Drag races,” Lucky supplied at the same time Shamus said, “Drag queens.”

Both Finn and Pat raised their eyebrows. Finn finally chuckled. “I didn’t know there are drag queens racing cars here. Unfortunately we can’t help you with that. We’re new here too.”

Clancy laughed. “No. I-I got me names mixed up. It’s Shannon Arish we be seekin’.”

Finn snapped to attention. “You’re lookin’ for Shannon? Why?”

Lucky and Shamus hopped off their chairs and rushed around the back of Clancy’s. One of them slapped a hand over Clancy’s mouth, while they wrestled the little man off his chair and out of the restaurant.

Pat stared after them. “Well, it’s clear they don’t want to tell us what they’re about.”

Finn stood abruptly. “We need to follow ’em.”

“But aren’t they followin’ us? If we go after them, the five of us will be goin’ around in circles.”

Finn gaped at his friend. “But what could they want with her? I have to know.”

Pat sighed. “Relax and finish your beer. Didn’t you say one of them told you she was in Boston? Maybe they’re friends.”

“And maybe I’m Batman.”

“Then we’ll slip out without them seein’ us. Now that we know who they are and what they look like, they’ll be easy to spot if they follow us again.”

* * *

Amber yawned. It was clearly time for bed, and she wasn’t looking forward to another long night on a hard floor.

“Well, g’night then,” she said and strolled toward her room. “Thank you for the music—or the session, as you call it. It was a lot of fun.”

Rory rose. “Ah, lass. Come here.”

She halted abruptly.
What could he want? A good-night kiss? Not likely.

He opened his futon and stood beside it. “I know there’s not a stick of furniture in your room. I can’t make a lady such as yerself sleep on a cold, hard floor.”

He was offering up his bed? For her? “What’s the catch?” She approached slowly.

“No catch.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.” She stopped a few feet from him.

“No need to say a word. You can even have the side near the fire—such as it is.”

“No funny business, right? I mean, I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night and find you wrapped around me like a python.”

He stiffened. “You think I’m luring you to me bed for sex? I am not, lass. That would indeed make me a snake.”

“I don’t know many men who aren’t interested in a fling once they get a woman into bed.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Fine. I offered. Mayhaps I’ll sleep guilt free after all.” With that, he lay down on “his side” and faced away from the fire.

Damn it.
Amber didn’t think she could feel more foolish, but she did. A few moments ago, she was looking at a long sleepless night on the hardwood floor…and now she was again.

She’d been offered half of his comfortable mattress, and instead of expressing gratitude, she’d insulted him. Being suspicious of motives might have been appropriate if an American man was trying to talk her into staying overnight to “save her from” a short drive home. But she was stuck there with only one mattress between them, and he owed her nothing.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He opened his eyes, and he levered himself to a sitting position. “I understand. You don’t know me. Not really. If you did, you’d know there was no ulterior motive involved.”

She nodded sadly. “I think even though I don’t know you, I sensed that you meant no more than generosity. Unfortunately my experience with men has been quite different.”

“Ah, lass. It’s unfortunate indeed. You’re a beauty, and men will want you. But they’ve no right to trick you into somethin’ you don’t want.”

She smiled.

“Come and sit. Perhaps we can get to know each other enough to get past this hump.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Hump?”

“Ack! I didn’t mean it that way. I-I…”

She chuckled and sat next to him. “I knew that. I just couldn’t resist making you squirm—or in this country, we call it ‘busting your balls.’”

“Oh. You’ve an unkind sense of humor, luv.”

“I know. Sorry.”

He smiled. “Not a’tall. I’m used to it. Most Irish lasses are the feisty sort, and any one of them could have pulled that off…although not quite as well.”

“Well, I must have reached into my Irish heritage for that one.”

Amber sat on the futon, “leaving enough room for the Holy Spirit” between them, as her grandmother used to say.

He brightened. “Are you Irish then?”

“My last name is McNally. I’m as Irish as Paddy’s pig.”

They both laughed. It was a deep, cathartic thing that ended with giggles and grins over an inside joke.

Rory’s eyes watered and he swiped at them. Then, by the funny way his face scrunched, Amber realized he was trying to stifle a yawn.

“We need to sleep,” she said. “Is your kind offer still open?”

He removed his shoes, but left on his sweatpants and T-shirt. “Of course.”

Even though he faced away from “her side,” he was a big man and had to curl a bit to keep his feet from falling off the end. That pushed his firm-looking ass over the invisible line between them. She didn’t dare complain.

Amber slipped off her shoes and padded over to her side of the futon. She didn’t take off her blouse or jeans either. She thought about removing her bra, but the heck with it. She was exhausted and just wanted to drop down onto the comfy mattress and sleep.

Apparently they were both side sleepers. She lay on her side, facing away from him, and accidentally bumped his buttocks.

“That wasn’t me,” he was quick to say.

“I know. Sorry.” She tried to scoot closer to the edge but teetered, in danger of falling off. No matter how many times she adjusted, she just knew they couldn’t fit that way.

Rory spoke up. “If you want to mimic spoons in a drawer, I promise I won’t think anythin’ of it.”

She realized that curling the same way they’d fit much better. She sighed. “Okay, but I get to be the big spoon. I don’t want to accidentally bump into your…”

“Knife?” he supplied.

Amber’s face heated and she was glad he couldn’t see her fair complexion, because it was probably turning red. Still she couldn’t help giggling.

* * *

Ballyhoo was in an uproar. The village pub was exploding with locals, and tempers were beginning to flare. Finally, Mrs. O’Malley climbed up on the bar and raised her voice above the din. “Whisht! Be quiet, the lot of you. We’ve a man of the cloth here. Perhaps we should be askin’ for guidance in this matter instead of arguing about whether or not magic is real.”

“Father,” Mrs. O’Malley said, looking down at the man wearing the white collar who was sipping his Guinness. “The whole village needs your opinion…not that there won’t be some who’ll ignore it, if their minds be made up.”

The priest nodded. “Why should today be different from any other?”

“You’ll address them, then?”

“I will.”

At last. Mayhaps some sanity will return to our little pub.

While Mrs. O’Malley got down from the bar, Father Joseph Flaherty rose. He was loud enough to be heard by most, yet they crowded around him just the same.

“It seems as if there are two major questions,” he began. “First, where did that castle up by Braydon Road come from? Did it just appear suddenly? If so, was magic involved?”

Despite that being three questions, polite affirmative noises came from the villagers.

“I haven’t seen it yet, but I understand it looks ancient. Are you sure it wasn’t there all along?”

“’Twas not, Father,” one of the fishermen supplied. “’Tis built into the cliffs, so it could be missed from the road but not from the sea. One day it wasn’t there and the next, ’twas.”

“You couldn’t really miss it from the road either,” a sheepherder said. “I move me sheep over that way from time to time. The Arishes have no problem with it as long as I keep them a fair distance from the cottage.”

“
Had
, you mean.” Her husband Mr. O’Malley cleared his throat. “No one has seen the Arishes in weeks. Young Finn went lookin’ for Shannon. One day he comes in and says she and her family are gone. They didn’t say a word to anyone. We kept expectin’ them to show up with their instruments, but Finn appears to have the right of it. They’re missin’, and next thing we hear is there’s a magic castle behind their cottage!”

“Hmmm…” The priest glanced around the crowd. “Where is young Finn?”

Mrs. O’Malley placed her hands on her hips. “Now he’s gone too, along with his shadow, Patrick. The two of ’em were plottin’ some trip to Boston I heard.”

“Ah, I have fond memories of Boston,” Father Joe said. “I visited me aunt and uncle there when I was a lad.” He smiled. “I developed quite a crush on me pretty cousin.”

One of the village women gasped. “Father!”

He glanced at her. “What? I wasn’t born with this collar.”

One of the farmers spoke up. “There’s somethin’ else you should know, Father. The travelers are back.” He spit on the floor. “Dirty heathens.”

The next thing Mrs. O’Malley knew, all the villagers were spitting on her floor! “Ack! You’ll be moppin’ up that spit, Daniel O’Brien.” If she were closer, she’d have boxed the farmer’s ears.

Daniel ignored her and continued talking to Father Joseph. “We think young Finn consulted a fortune-teller, as he was
desperate
to learn where Shannon went.”

“Ah, so you’re thinkin’ the gypsy sent him to Boston and the castle appeared by gypsy magic?” the priest asked.

“No,
we
don’t,” the fisherman said. “The two incidents could be completely unrelated.”

“So, tell us, Father,” Mr. O’Malley finally said. “Is magic real?”

The man of the cloth scratched his head and gazed at the floor. “If it is gypsy magic, there’s a darkness to it. I’d counsel you all to stay clear of the travelers.” Then he raised his voice. “Stay clear of those cliffs as well.”