Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (19 page)

“Excellent. I believe the last time I had one, I was five. The elders would buy them for me when I ran errands.”

“They stopped when you were five?”

“No, I was five when I realized the shakes were, essentially, empty calories, and I could ask for something more nutritionally substantial.” He leaned back on the bench. “Until I was eight and asked for money in lieu.”

I laughed as I took away the trash, but the laugh was for his benefit, and as soon as my back was to him, I was no longer smiling. I was thinking of a five-year-old boy, telling the elders he’d prefer something more nutritious than milkshakes. I imagined them smiling and humoring him and, yes, kids go through those phases, when they learn that something isn’t good for them and resolve to make better choices. But if a five-year-old voluntarily rejects sweets to eat healthy and then starts asking for the money
instead, at some point you have to realize something is wrong. Seriously wrong. Like maybe he’s asking because he damned well needs the decent food he’s not getting at home. The elders should have figured out—

Behind me, pavement scraped underfoot. I turned to see Gabriel rising.

“Olivia?” he said, his voice perfectly calm, his gaze fixed on a stand of trees. “Your purse?”

I threw the trash into the bin with one hand and pulled my gun from my purse with the other. My attention—like his—never left those trees. Then Gabriel’s swung to a brick pavilion. He started toward it at a slow lope. I covered him, breaking into a jog when he disappeared around the wall.

At a thump and a gasp, I was running, ignoring the pain shooting through my side. I saw Gabriel swing at a dark figure. Movement flickered behind him, but before I could call a warning, he’d knocked his target aside and was turning to the new threat. By the time I arrived, he had the second assailant pinned to the pavilion wall. The first was still on the ground, struggling for breath and holding his stomach.

The man on the ground wobbled to his feet. Gabriel let him. Then, without releasing his grip on the other assailant, he clocked the first guy, dropping him again.

The figure pinned to the wall was the man from Monday night, the one who’d pursued Aunika and me.

“If you have your switchblade, you might want to use it on that one.” Gabriel nodded toward the man on the ground. “Preferably in his right side.”

“He’s the one who stabbed me?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t intimidate me, Walsh,” the man said, rubbing his jaw.

“Intimidation suggests no intention of follow-through. I’d be quite happy to see Olivia stab you in retaliation. In fact, if I thought she’d do it, I’d insist. However, barring that …” Gabriel turned as the man rose again, and then kicked him in the gut so hard the man howled as he fell back.

“You—you bastard. I think you broke something.”

“The correct term would be ‘ruptured.’ I’d strongly suggest you seek medical attention when you leave.” He turned to the man he had pinned to the wall. “Who hired you?”

“Hired us? No one—”

“You are a gun for hire. Or muscle for hire, given that you don’t actually seem to have a gun. Which is odd, suggesting that’s a stipulation by the man who hired you. Who is also, presumably, the one who tried to stop your colleague here from attacking Olivia.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Let me go slower, then. You are hired muscle. A mercenary, to use the proper term. Former military, judging by that tattoo and your bearing. You’ve slipped a little in your grooming and your mannerisms, which tells me you’ve been out of the service for a while yet still try to maintain the lifestyle to project a military image for your clients. Ergo, mercenary.”

“Who the fuck are you? Sherlock Holmes?”

Gabriel’s lips twitched at that. He nodded to me, letting the actual detective take over.

“As for the gun stipulation,” I said. “You’re clearly more accustomed to using weapons than brute force, given how easily you were both rousted. That suggests the absence of a gun isn’t your choice. Which also suggests you weren’t hired to hurt Aunika. Just scare her. That goes for anyone else you encounter in executing those duties. Like me. You seemed to think Aunika knew
why you were after her. But when she asked, you wouldn’t tell her. What was the point of that?”

“You’re the clever one. I’m sure you have an answer.”

“
You
don’t know why you’re targeting her. Men like you don’t need reasons. Even if your boss told you, I don’t think you’re bright enough to remember it.”

“I’m sure my IQ is higher than yours, blondie. I don’t want details for security reasons. The less we know, the better. The client told us that Madole knows exactly what’s going on. She’s just playing dumb. We’re supposed to scare her until she breaks and does what the client wants.”

“Which is?”

He fixed me with cool gray eyes. “That’s not our concern.”

“And your client thinks I’m connected? Is that why you’re following me?”

The guy on the ground—clearly feeling left out of this confessional moment—said, “No, he wanted us to make sure you’re okay.”

His partner shot him a shut-the-fuck-up look, but his partner was tired of playing stoic paramilitary dude and continued. “We followed you from the hospital, but we couldn’t get good-enough photographs. That’s what he wants: pictures to prove you’re up and around, no harm done.”

“Shut—” the other man began … and Gabriel hit him. A punch to the jaw as effortless and casual as if he’d reached up to scratch his nose.

“You needed pictures of Ms. Taylor-Jones as proof she was not seriously injured,” Gabriel said to the man on the ground. “You may tell your employer that she
was
injured—seriously—and when I find him, he will pay for that. Preferably through a civil suit, but other methods may be substituted as needed.
Now, your client asked for proof that she survived her ordeal. Specifically her?”

“You, too, though he was more concerned with her.”

Gabriel nodded, processing. “Do you have anything to add?”

“No.”

“All right. Before I release you, I’d like the name of your client.”

The man against the wall managed to laugh, wincing from his injured jaw. “Address, e-mail, and social security number, too?”

“Some method of contact would be appreciated.”

“God, you’re a piece of work, Walsh. That arrogance might work in a courtroom, but in the real world, people don’t just give you whatever you want—”

“True.” Gabriel pinned the guy, forearm at his throat, silencing him, as I began searching his pockets. “But I do like to give them the option. It’s only reasonable.”

I found a cell phone and a knife tucked in his shoe. I took both. That’s when the guy on the ground decided rather belatedly to make a run for it. Gabriel tossed mercenary #1 aside and caught #2 by the back of the jacket. The guy didn’t bother waiting for me to pat him down. He handed me a phone and a knife while his partner cursed him out. I still did the pat-down, and found only a set of car keys. We released the men, and I watched them struggle to pull their dignity back in place as they strode away.

W
e
sat in the car, on a hill near the city limits, and watched the sun rise. It was Gabriel’s idea. Even if he cannot quite fathom the appeal of watching something that occurs—without fail—every day, he knew that it’d been a ritual with my father and brought back good memories. So he got me a mocha and brought me here.

I went through the phones we’d confiscated. Texted instructions confirmed the two guys were hired help and that their mission had indeed been to provide proof that I was alive and well. Which was a little weird, and made Gabriel and me both wonder if the client knew who I was—not Olivia Taylor-Jones or Eden Larsen, but Matilda, prized by the Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn, both of whom were not pleased I’d nearly died.

I was going through those when my phone buzzed. Incoming voice mails. A whole bunch of them.

“Seems the new phone is taking its time releasing my messages,” I said as I flipped to the inbox. “I have three from Ricky. One—oh, shit. Pamela got my number, and I totally forgot to tell you.”

Dismay crossed his face, disappearing under an impassive mask. I knew it was difficult for him to talk about her, as much as
he pretended otherwise. This was the woman who’d had him framed for murder.

“She called right before I met up with Aunika Monday night. She found out about Ricky somehow. That he’s in trouble. She says she has information that can help him.”

“I’ll speak to her.”

“Absolutely not. She’s just manipulating me, and I’m not even going to listen to her messages.” I scrolled down the list. “Despite the fact she left six of them. How the hell is she doing that? When she called, I didn’t get the penitentiary warning.”

“She’s borrowed or stolen a phone. It happens. However, it might be wise for me to contact her and tell her you’re all right, given that your accident made the paper.”

“Right,” I muttered. “Shit.”

“I ought to get a message to both Pamela and Todd, assuring them you are well.”

“Can you tell Todd to call me? So I can let him know myself that I’m fine. And have Lydia handle Pamela. I really don’t want you having contact with her.”

That flash of dismay again. He saw avoiding Pamela as weakness. He cleared his throat and said, “We need to talk. I …” Another throat clearing, then he looked out the car window to see the sun was finally up and said, with some relief, “You wanted to see Ms. Madole’s apartment. We’ll do that now.”

Gabriel picked the building’s rear-door lock. We made sure no one was inside, and then hunted for the apartment access. I found it easily enough—a set of stairs behind what seemed like a closet door.

“This is more likely to have a security system,” Gabriel said.

He picked the lock. As he pulled back, his bare wrist touched the metal, and he jumped as a red welt rose on his wrist.

“It’s electrified,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered that.”

“Mmm, maybe not.” I took off my glove and touched the knob with the back of my knuckle. Then said, “Try again. Carefully.”

He did, and his lips curved in an unspoken curse as he got another jolt.

“Cold-forged iron,” I said. “I feel it as a weird tingling, but it affects you more since you’re at least half—” I caught myself. “I mean, fae runs strongly in the Walsh side.”

“I can’t imagine I have more fae blood than you.”

“Todd’s line is Cŵn Annwn. It’s different,” I said quickly. “The point is that cold-forged iron affects you. So once we’re inside, avoid anything metal.”

He slipped inside to check for alarms. After a few moments he returned and said, “It’s disarmed.”

“That was fast,” I said, joining him.

“I mean it was already disarmed. Aunika must not have come back after that night.”

I didn’t like the sound of that but told myself that her pursuer hadn’t wanted her harmed. After our plunge off the bridge, she probably wisely decided to hole up and stay safe, which didn’t include making a trip back for her toothbrush.

Aunika’s apartment looked like a generic hotel suite—basic and cheaply furnished. It was the decorations that turned it into a home, yet they weren’t so much decorations as keepsakes. Homemade knickknacks. Faded greeting cards.
Thank you Aunika, for making a difference.

Photos of girls covered the walls. Portraits, like the ones downstairs, plus a stack of photographs on an end table. These were the stories she wanted to remember. Memories of girls who grew up. Girls who weren’t the lamiae, who had a future if they could get their lives on track.

I looked for girls in snakeskin belts. Dark-haired girls with ancient eyes. I didn’t see them until I went into her bedroom, where I found a collage on the wall. They were smiling here, caught off guard and tossing Aunika a genuine smile—girlish and innocent.

I took pictures of that wall. Intrusive, yes, but putting faces to the local lamiae would help.

When I heard a beep in the front room, I went in to see Gabriel standing over an answering machine.

“Hey, Aunika,” a male voice said. “Wow, you really do have an answering machine. Very old-school. But I guess you have to, if you don’t carry a cell phone.” A nervous laugh. “Anyway, it’s Rob. From last week? I know things didn’t go too well, but I’d like a, uh, second chance. I promise I won’t talk about my ex. Okay? Call me back?”

The next message was from a neighbor complaining about two men who were asking after Aunika and could Aunika please tell her friends not to pester her neighbors?

“Those ‘friends’ were stalkers, lady,” I said.

The next message was an appointment reminder. The next was a returned call from a service company. And then,

“Hey, Ani. It’s Erin. I opened up today, which isn’t a problem. But you aren’t answering your door or your cell, so I’m getting a little freaked. Can you call me back?”

“That’s the girl who works downstairs with her,” I said. “And apparently Aunika does have a cell phone. She just doesn’t give the number on first dates.”

Another couple of non-important calls followed. Then, “Ani?” A girl’s voice paused and then gave a low chuckle. “Answering machine, right? I remember those. It’s Melanie. Where are you? Erin says you’re taking time off, but I can’t reach you on your cell, and we were supposed to meet up for coffee, and it’s not
like you to forget. You know how to get in touch with me. Just let us know you’re okay, all right?”

The next one was the same girl. “Ani? I’m getting worried now. It’s been three days. The others are freaking out. After Lucy and Rina and Steph, well, they’re really freaking out. Please tell us you didn’t go after this guy yourself. Get back to me. I’ve got a number you can use.” She rattled it off and I jotted it down.

The number provided by the lamia—Melanie—was answered by a guy who grunted that he’d take a message. Gabriel dropped me off at the office, where the nurse met me for a checkup while he headed to meet a client. Gabriel’s admin assistant—Lydia—and I were chatting when my phone blipped with an incoming text from Pamela.

I was about to erase the message. Then I stopped, seeing the words.