Page 62 of The Scald Crow

“She’ll love this, Eamon. Thanks.” I looked into his eyes, unreadable behind heavy plastic frames. I often wondered if he wore them to throw people off.

He nodded silently.

“I wasn’t expecting your call.” I tilted my chin, observing the older man.

His mouth was set in a hard line, and his knuckles were white on the horn of his shillelagh.

“I require your services, Colm.” He peered over the rim of his glasses.

“Eamon, it’s not a good time.” I shifted my weight, the chair’s legs scraping against the stone floor—six years as an independent contractor. I went wherever the old man sent me. No questions asked. Rescues. Extractions. A short stint in security. Time had taken its toll, and I found myself yearning for normalcy. Whatever that might be.

He slammed his closed fist on the desk, shaking the table lamp from its moorings. I watched a spider skitter along the thick folder. The doves cooed.

“You’re the best I’ve got.” His voice reverberated within the round chamber, the tenacity of a much younger man lingering on each note.

“You have others more qualified than me.” Turning him down was my only option. I would admit to no one the effect Calla Sweet had on my mind.

“Are you familiar with reconstructionism?” His eyebrows twitched.

“A bunch of loons reliving pagan times.” I huffed but smiled inside. My father followed the Celtic calendar closely, holding those same rituals close to his heart. I sat back in my chair.

He remained silent, but his thoughtful expression prompted me to continue.

“Modern pagans believe everything on earth is connected, and the natural world is imbued with spiritual presence. Academics would call it animism.” I was raised in a household steeped in old beliefs and superstitions. But did I believe trees had souls? “Where is this going?”

“An English bloke named Sean Hamstead is bent on proving that those ‘spirits’ have shape and form and can indeed affect the world we live in.” He picked up a pencil, holding it between his thumb and index finger.

“That’s far-fetched, isn’t it?” I saw the humor, but warning bells rang just the same.

“He’s a dangerous man with unlimited funding.” His grip tightened, snapping the pencil’s spine into two jagged pieces.

“Funding?” My brain throbbed as I watched the broken pencil rolling across the desk.

“If Hamstead could control those spirits, consider the consequences.” He swept the pencil pieces into a trash can and then looked up.

“What’s his background?” I was almost afraid to ask the question.

“He was a researcher with the Global Health Organization. Sources tell me they let him go, citing questionable practices.” His gaze never left mine.

The dog Eamon called Finnigan left his station and rested his head on Eamon’s lap.

“What kind of questionable practices?” I placed both hands on the edge of the broad desk, steadying myself.

“Genetics. He hijacked specific samples found in archeological sites. More importantly, he’s suspected in the disappearance of a young lad from Malin Head—the boy was accused of being a changeling by his parents.” He opened the manilla file, revealing a shiny eight-by-ten photograph of a balding man.

“A changeling?” I scoffed at the idea. An ancient pagan belief—a child stolen away by the Other Crowd and replaced by a sickly faerie child enchanted with a convincing glamor. The parents left none the wiser. It was better to believe your healthy child lived in a crystal palace than waste away before your eyes.

“The child has been missing three days, taken from his bed in the wee hours. The investigation is ongoing.” He tapped his index finger on the photo, and the resounding thud echoed.

Is that why Eamon sought me out? To search for the missing child? Dread consumed me. The longer an investigation, the less likely a successful outcome.

He continued his analysis of the subject.

“What supernatural beings do we, the Irish, immortalize to this day?” He took off his glasses and set them down on the desk.

“The Tuatha Dé,” I admitted to their mysterious presence. They existed. They exist. My brother spoke to them. Is that where he was now?

I turned Eamon’s synopsis over.

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