Autumn Thorns (25 page)

He nodded, serious. “The post and duties of a spirit shaman go back long before anyone came to America, you know. The history goes back to the Morrígan herself. Other cultures have their own versions. My line comes from the Phantom
Queen, too. She's the Great Mother Shapeshifter to us, and most Celtic shapeshifters are descended from her spirit.”

“You said most shapeshifters mate for life. What about Katrina?”

“When I was married to Katrina, I knew something wasn't right, but as I said before, I did my best to make it work. But in my heart I knew that something was going to happen. She wasn't the right one, though I gave the marriage everything I had. I just didn't expect her to die. I thought she'd leave me, or something like that.” He flipped the pancakes onto two plates, added bacon, and handed me one.

An edge in his voice made me think he was harboring some sort of guilt. As I buttered my pancakes and doused them in a healthy dose of maple syrup, I asked, “Do you blame yourself for Katrina's death?”

That stopped him cold. He stood behind his chair, holding his breakfast like he didn't know what to do next. After a moment, he slowly set his dish down and then, still looking uncertain, slid into his chair. Picking up his knife, he stared at the tub of butter.

“Honestly? I think I do. I'm the one who got her pregnant. And yes, I know she wanted children, but . . . she was pregnant with
my
child. I don't blame our daughter, though I probably don't see her as often as I should, but . . . I guess mostly, I blame myself because secretly, I was a little relieved. Not that she was dead,” he hurried to say. “But that the marriage was over.”

I carefully kept my voice neutral, trying not to allow any nuance to color it. “Death is . . . often a tidy way to resolve something, regardless of how sad we may be. I was able to come home because my grandfather died. Would I have ever wished it on him? At the time, no. Now, maybe I have a different answer. But it afforded me the chance to return to Whisper Hollow.”

Bryan nodded. “You understand. I cared about Katrina. I never would have wished pain or any suffering on her, but it freed me from having to deal with a divorce or anything messy, or causing a major falling-out with her family.”

“Do they still keep in contact with you?” I forked a mouthful of the hotcakes, closing my eyes as I bit into their melty goodness. I preferred waffles, but Bryan sure knew his way around a kitchen, that much was for certain.

“No, they talk to Juliana quite a bit—she's their blood, too. They don't have much to say to me.” He cast off the topic with a shrug. “But back to the matter at hand. I met you, and realized that we were meant to be together. I could feel the sparks from the beginning. I just had to let you make the decision about how much you wanted me in your life. As guardian . . . or as guardian and friend . . . or guardian and lover.”

“Well, I think we've established which it is. This is new for me, too. I've had a lot of dates, a number of lovers, but I never really was close to any of them. There was always something holding me back. Whether it was the ghost of his mother warning me her son was pond scum, or the fact that he lived in his parents' basement and had no intention of making his way on his own. One after another, the parade of bad dates led me to eventually stop trying. For a while I wondered if it was me, but then I looked at the playing field and thought, no—when the toys are defective, I'm not the one with the problem other than that I tended to attract them.”

I grimaced, remembering one particularly bad date, where the man had bluntly told me during dinner that I owed him a blow job to earn my pizza. That had been the last time I bothered going out.

“What are you thinking about?” Bryan laughed. “You're smirking in a most peculiar way.”

I snorted and told him about the aborted date.

His eyes grew wide and he started to cough. “The guy actually said that?”

“Yep . . .” I put on my best swagga-voice.
“You know, girl, most chicks I go out with now offer to go Dutch, but I'd rather take it in trade. Your pretty pink lips on my dick. Suck me dry and we'll call it even.”

Bryan sprayed his coffee through his nose. “You have
got
to be kidding.”

“I wish. But yeah, so I haven't dated much the past couple of years.” I leaned back, finishing the last bite of my breakfast. “This was good.” I wanted to forget about everything that had gone on the past couple of days and just go hibernate in the bedroom with him, but we both had things to do. I glanced at the clock. “I'd better go talk to Ivy, as much as I don't want to.”

But the phone rang before I could say a word. I glanced at the caller ID. Aidan. Hurrying to answer, I almost spilled the last of my juice. “Hello? Aidan?”

“Kerris, I'm just settling a few last-minute details. I'll be in Whisper Hollow tonight, around eleven. Are you still living in your grandmother's house?”

“Yes, I'll see you then. If I'm not back, then just wait for me.” I paused, then said, “Please, be careful.” As I hung up, I turned to Bryan. “My grandfather—my real grandfather—is coming back to Whisper Hollow. Maybe now I'll find out why Lila married Duvall and threw Aidan over.”

“Just make certain he's safe. I'll be here, with you.” Bryan headed to the door. “I've got work to do, too. So, tonight, then? I'll see you here about nine?”

I held his gaze. “Make it eight and we can have an encore of the encore.”

With a lascivious grin, he nodded. “Eight, then. And I'll bring takeout.”

With that, he was out the door, as I carried the plates to the sink.

*   *   *

B
efore heading over to Ivy's—she said she could see me at ten thirty—I decided to tackle my grandfather's office. So far, I'd been putting it off, but I had come up with an idea, and to do that, I thought that it would be better if I could make at least a general pass through the desk and see what I could uncover before heading out for the day.

The bookshelves were packed. I had to hand it to Duvall—he owned just about every classic written and they looked well read. After a quick perusal, I focused on his
desk and filing cabinet. The desk was a large, heavy oak design, and his leather chair was the epitome of old money. A drafting table stood next to one window, and I closed my eyes for a moment, remembering him as he sat on the high stool in front of it, designing his plans. His buildings had been in high demand, he was good at what he did, and he had never been lacking for work.

As I turned on the banker's lamp, I stared at the tidy desktop. Everything in its place. A large blotter covered one half of the desk, and to the left of that—a laptop. Curious, I opened it up and pressed the power button. As the screen flickered to life, a password prompt came up. I had no clue what to type in, so I just left it for now. Maybe I could find a list of his passwords somewhere, or maybe I could find someone to hack into it. I had the feeling he had plenty to hide, and obviously he didn't want my grandmother getting into it. Just as she had hidden her tools and journal from him.

I turned my attention to the drawers. Pens, Post-it notes, office supplies of one type or another . . . the usual things you'd expect to find filled the top three drawers. The bottom left drawer was locked, however. There had been a key in the center drawer, so I tried it, and bingo—the left drawer opened to reveal a handgun in a holster. I cautiously withdrew it. I knew how to use a gun, but I also knew enough to respect them. As I withdrew it from the holster, I saw that it wasn't loaded. A magazine was near where the gun had been, and it did have bullets in it. The gun looked clean, though. I had a feeling Duvall hadn't just left it there to mildew. He'd used it, whether in target practice or something more sinister. I made sure the safety was on and packed it up along with the ammo to drop off at the police station; maybe they could match it to the bullet hole in Tamil's jacket.

There wasn't much else in the drawer, so I turned to the right bottom drawer. It, too, was locked, but the same key didn't open it. There weren't any other keys in the other drawers, so I had to assume that my grandfather either hid it or kept it with him, and if he had kept it with him, it was probably at the bottom of the lake.

I jiggled the drawer, wondering if I could pick the thing. I had never formally learned how to pick a lock, but hell, it couldn't be that hard, could it? I dashed into the kitchen, found a couple of knives and a screwdriver, and returned to the den. There, after a bit of maneuvering and finally outright bludgeoning, I managed to pop open the drawer.

Inside, a row of hanging files held several folders. As I began going through them, I noticed that several were old and dusty, while others were fairly new. I glanced at the tabs. They were neatly labeled, several with names I didn't recognize. As I peeked in the files, I saw they were something to do with his business. I set those aside. But behind those were three thick binders, each labeled
Cú Chulainn's Hounds
. One was labeled
Meetings
, one
Members
. The third was labeled
Information
.

Bingo!

I settled into his chair and opened the first binder. Member lists, each dated with a year, went back to 1875—though the older reports looked like they had been photocopied and typed. I doubted they were the original lists. There was a section that appeared to be dossiers on various members, and a section for “members emeritus” . . . which I had the distinct feeling meant they had died, not resigned. This was one group that I'd lay odds on was nigh impossible to leave on a friendly basis.

The
Meetings
binder contained memos detailing minutes of various meetings. It was jammed and appeared to go back to 1872—just like the member lists. Again, probably second-generation photocopies. As for the third binder, it was stuffed with notes and newspaper clippings. There was no way in hell I could get through this before I left to visit Ivy.

I pushed the binders to the side. Along with my grandmother's diaries, I had more than enough to read for several weeks. Then I returned to the drawer. One last notebook caught my eye. It was an expense ledger. I opened it and saw a listing of names that looked familiar . . . a quick cross-check proved me right. They were all members of the Cú Chulainn group. Every page was for a different month, and
it looked like this ledger had been started about seven years ago, from the date on the first page. I flipped to the second to last, dated September 30. Each name was listed with an amount next to it. Each column had a place for a check mark, and all the names had been checked. The last page was written out for October 31, and all the names were there, along with the amounts, but no checks. They hadn't had their meeting yet.

October 31. That was coming up in a week or so. And that meant the group was going to remember about these binders and want them back, and I didn't want them to find them. I was surprised they hadn't broken in to get them yet, but ten to one, the thought had escaped their notice. But come their next meeting, it sure as hell wouldn't.

I glanced around, trying to figure out where I could hide them where they wouldn't be found. Then it hit me.
My grandmother's secret room.
I glanced back in the ledger to make sure of something, then ran the binders and the ledger upstairs and tucked them neatly out of sight.

That done, I shrugged into my jacket. It was time to hit the road.

*   *   *

A
fter a quick stop at the police station, where I dropped off Tamil's jacket, showing Sophia the bullet hole, and the gun I had found, and picked up my mother's ring, I stood in front of Ivy's door. Hesitating before ringing the bell, I ran through ways to start the conversation.

Ivy must have been waiting because she opened the door before I could gather my thoughts. She took one look at my face and bustled me inside. “What's happened?”

I worried my lip, not knowing how to put it. I was usually a little too blunt, a little too direct, but I'd never been in this sort of situation before and I wasn't sure how to handle it. Finally, I reached for her hand and pressed the ring into her palm.

She looked at it for a moment, her eyes growing wide, and then wordlessly, she opened her arms. I moved into her embrace, resting my head against her shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. “We found my mother, and I think we found Avery's body, too.”

Ivy pressed a soft kiss on my forehead. She let out a long breath and stood back, a sad smile on her face. “I've been both hoping for and dreading this day. Come in, tell me what happened.”

Over coffee, I ran down the events. “They aren't sure yet if it's Avery—it might not be, but Sophia promised to call me as soon as she knows. She'll probably call you, too. I asked her to let me warn you first, to prepare you.”

She paused for a moment, gazing out the window. Then—“I think you're right. My Avery has been found. He's coming home at last.” She held the ring up to the light. I had stopped at the jewelry store and had it cleaned before bringing it back, not wanting the dirt that had clung to it all those years to be a silent reminder. “This is yours, my dear. I want you to have it. Your mother would have passed it down to you if she had lived.” I started to shake my head, but Ivy pushed the ring across the table. “I mean it. And someday, when we have more time, I will tell you about Avery's grandmother. She was a pistol, she was.”

Her cell rang, and she glanced at it, then looked back at me. “Sophia.” She stood up and moved to the kitchen window with her phone, staring out into her backyard.

I held up the ring. It fit perfectly as I slid it onto my right-hand ring finger. As I studied the sparkling stone, not wanting to intrude on Ivy's conversation, her murmured voice rose and fell, and I knew that we had been right. I wasn't trying to eavesdrop but, even in the big old country kitchen, it was impossible not to hear what she was saying.