Eire of Hostility Read online

  *********

  Tilting his head back for another swig from the pilfered bottle of Harp lager, Vaughn followed it with a wipe of his upper lip and a throaty belch. He sat in the cold night air on the roof ledge of a sandwich shop in the hub of Ballaghadaere, letting his booted feet dangle.

  After taking another large gulp, he absently noted a young couple passing by the closed shops across the street, the only people to be seen out at that hour. The shop directly across from him had a strange name, Hammerworks, but the interior appeared empty; that was explained by the small sign in the window that said, 'opening soon'. Vaughn soon forgot about the meaningless sights of the village and focused on important matters.

  He once again prepared himself to join Jane McCarthy in her dreams. As with most targets, Vaughn was beginning to know the young woman well from her slumbering imagery. He was pleased to find that Jane's wishes and aspirations far outweighed any fears or insecurities; so few vibrant, healthy minds were found nowadays. He intensified his thoughts of her, but found nothing. He knew the girl's sleeping patterns well enough; she normally was asleep by then.

  Curious of how long he might have to wait until Jane fell asleep, Vaughn thought to locate her with his uncommon gift. Her current location might give him an idea of how much time he had to find some fun in the quiet little village.

  While his left hand and arm cradled the comparatively big bottle of lager, Vaughn held out his right, letting his stubby index finger lazily twirl. He found nothing. Confused and with growing irritation, he set the bottle down, tugged on his tweed vest, closed his bright eyes, and then tried again.

  Vaughn's eyes shot open, noting that the finger he used to locate targets was pressed against his own chest. 'The Lore', he thought to himself, 'She's in the Lore. How the fuck did that happen?' He concentrated again to get a better fix on Jane; her actions might give a clue as to who brought her there. Vaughn found her again; she was running erratically, as if around minor barriers or in a dense wood.

  The limitations of the gift of locating didn't allow sight of the target's view, but did give an overview of position. Vaughn mentally broadened his scope. His bushy eyebrows knit together; why was Jane in the Forlorn Mists? Even more, if his guess was correct from her chaotic activity, why was she alone?

  If it was a punishment of some sort, then Vaughn thought that somewhere nearby was a fae with a cruel sense of justice; whatever the relatively innocent girl did, she didn't deserve that.

  He thought back on his recent manipulations of dream-craft; the imagery of a door or two (for purposes unknown) had no blatant connection to the unexpected development. Vaughn nonetheless felt the teeth of guilt gnaw at him. Placed in the Forlorn, Jane could go mad if her mind wasn't strong enough before she acclimated. But before she might prevail and keep her sanity, she could eat poison fruit, be tortured and eaten by ogres, or maybe even bring to life some horror from her own imagination. Jane's end could come quickly and gruesomely.

  Telling himself that the main reason for his worry of Jane's welfare was to complete his part of the pact to Saraid's satisfaction, Vaughn stood and hopped back onto the flat roof of the building. 'The doors', he thought. Jane somehow made a bridge, and her doors were portals.

  Vaughn supposed it wouldn't do to finally get his target to her destination, only to be devoured before he could get the nod for a title. The necessary extra effort irked him - in his mind, misplaced anger was better than accepting blame and guilt.

  While noisily draining the last of the bottle down his gullet, Vaughn formed a quick fae-bridge portal that would bring him near Jane's last known location. He tossed the bottle away in frustration and stepped up to his portal.

  Wiping the few spilled drops of lager from his Donegal beard, he muttered, "Fuckin' eejit women make everything worse, like a fart at a funeral." He took a deep breath, let it out with a resigned huff, and then stepped through the portal and onto his fae-bridge.