Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (33 page)

“Twenty guineas a head.” The Huntsman looked at his brethren. “Is that the value of a human life these days?”

“It’s negotiable,” the man said.

The Huntsman turned on him, slowly. “No, John Miller, it is not negotiable. Human life cannot be weighed in pence and shillings, and any man who thinks it can has obviously done such work before.”

“N-no, course not. I’m just offering—”

“I see blood on your hands, John Miller. On your hands and in your eyes. An employer who dared complain when you stole from him. A prostitute who dared expect the money you promised her. And …” He leaned over, peering into the man’s eyes. “Your brother? No, tell me that’s not true. You murdered your brother over an inheritance barely larger than the price you just quoted for the life of a stranger?”

The man pushed back from the table. “No. I-I’ve never killed anyone.”

“Oh, but you have.” The Huntsman rose to his feet, the other two rising with him. “I think you’d best leave now, John Miller. I think you’d best run fast and run far, and stay out of the woods at night, and remember that if the moon has fallen and you hear the baying of hounds …” He leaned over, hands planted on the table. “They may be coming for you.”

Again, the scene shorted out, and I was back in that crib, trying to get out of it. I’d crawled into a corner and was pushing up as best I could. My legs didn’t work, but they never had, so I didn’t miss the use of them. I’d devised a way to escape the crib, getting into exactly the right position on my folded legs and then using my arms to heave myself up. It took effort, but I was
determined. I could hear Mommy in the front room talking to a man, and I was deeply vexed at the thought that we had visitors and I wasn’t there to be coddled and cooed over.

I managed to get over the railing. Then came the tough part—the tumble to the floor. From experience, I knew there were two ways to do it. If I wanted Daddy to come running, I’d fall onto the carpet with a thump. If I wanted a silent escape, I’d fall onto the pile of stuffed toys. That’s what I did now, squeezing my eyes shut and bracing for the blow. It hurt. I didn’t care. Such was the price of freedom.

I tugged myself from the pile of toys. My arms were strong enough that I could drag my body with ease. My bedroom door wasn’t shut. It was never shut, not completely. I pulled it open and then wriggle-crawled through.

The voices in the next room came clearer now.

“Four people,” Mommy was saying.

“Yes.” The man’s voice was calm, soothing. “That is the amount of sacrifice required to invoke the cure you’re looking for. The Tysons murdered that young couple, which means in killing them, as a couple, it will appear a continuation of the pattern. You’ll then need to follow their pattern, including the marks and the mutilations. Can your husband manage that?”

“It won’t be a problem.”

“Nor will it be easy.”

“I’m not looking for easy. I’m looking for a cure. You want four killers dead, and I don’t have a problem doing that.”

A pause, and I continued dragging myself, hearing their voices but not processing what they were saying. Grown-up talk. Unless it was about me, it wasn’t important.

“You do understand the implications,” the man said. “If you are caught—”

“We won’t be.”

“But if you are, we cannot set you free. We can make your life in prison simpler. We can ensure you have money for appeals. Nothing more.”

“Understood.”

Another pause, and I managed to get myself almost to the living room before the man said, “I really would like to speak to your husband.”

“I’m handling this.”

“He’s committed to the course, though?”

“He is. We both are. Now the rituals … the real ones.”

“Yes, simple acts you must conduct before the deaths to ensure the sacrifices are recognized. You can purchase the ingredients in any New Age shop. You’ll want to keep those hidden, though.”

“Why? If they can be bought legally, presumably for Wiccans or whatever …”

“Keep them hidden, Pamela. Preferably outside the house.”

“Yes, yes. Now back to—”

I’d pulled myself into the living room. Now I saw Mommy on the sofa and let out a squeal. She stopped mid-sentence and turned, her eyes widening.

“Eden!”

She flew from the sofa and snatched me up.

The man chuckled. “She’s quite the little explorer, isn’t she?” He reached to rub my back, and I closed my eyes, enjoying the attention, but Mommy pulled me away, stepping back and saying,
“This
is why I didn’t want to meet here.”

“How old is she now? Eighteen months?”

“I don’t care. She shouldn’t hear—”

“She’s too young to understand, Pamela.”

“I don’t care.”
Mommy hugged me tight, and I could feel her trembling. “We meet away from the house. Away from her. Is that understood?”

“As you like.” The man reached and rubbed the back of my head. “You had to see what was going on, didn’t you, Eden? Curious, resourceful, and determined. It will serve you well, child.”

“I’d like you to leave.”

“I’m no threat to your daughter, Pamela. The opposite, I should say, as I think you well know.”

“We’ll see when this is done. For now—”

“I’m going.” One last stroke on the back of my head. “Be well, little Eden.”

I snapped back into the present, hard enough that I must have toppled, because Gabriel grabbed me and before I was fully back, I was stretched out on the sofa.

Gabriel’s hand went to my forehead with his typical bedside manner, which meant more of a smack than a gentle fever check. His fingers were cool against my skin and stayed there at least twenty seconds.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Not that you asked.”

“Because you’d tell me that with a fever of a hundred and five.”

I shifted into a sitting position. “Am I feverish?”

“Your temperature is elevated.”

“But not by much. Meaning I really am fine.” I started to get to my feet, but a wave of light-headedness pushed me back down.

“Would you like to rediagnose?” Gabriel said.

“Just give me a minute.”

I rubbed my temples and then told them about the two cases I’d witnessed, which was guaranteed to distract Gabriel from his hovering.

“In other words,” I said, “no really new information, but it confirms what we’ve been told. Deals can be offered, for more than curing illness, it seems. But there are strict limitations. The Cŵn Annwn aren’t in the market for hired killers. They have their own code of ethics, and they must abide by it. They try to do the right thing.”

Patrick rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“Is that all?” Gabriel asked, as if knowing the answer already.

“No, another vision kept intruding. Except this one didn’t come from the book.” I told them what else I’d seen.

“A scene that you witnessed,” Patrick said. “But didn’t understand at the time.”

“Apparently. It does confirm, though, that Pamela did it and the Cŵn Annwn honestly believed my father participated. It also explained the witchcraft supplies. The Huntsman warned her not to keep them around. She thought he was being silly. Which he was not, in light of what happened.”

“And …” Gabriel said after a moment.

“There’s no
and.
That’s all I saw.” Which was true, but there was more to it. I kept thinking about Pamela, how she’d acted, what she’d said. I wanted so much for her to be a monster. To believe she was a sociopath hiding behind the mask of a fiercely devoted wife and mother. That made it easy to reject her completely and utterly, which is what I needed, because I couldn’t reconcile it otherwise. She’d arranged the murder of James. She’d tried to frame Gabriel. That was all that should matter.

I felt Patrick’s assessing gaze on me, handed him back the book, and said, “Thank you.”

“Does it help you solve your little mystery?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, a more honest answer than I’d usually give, my brain still muddled from the visions.

I got up, Gabriel rising with me.

“I’ll take one of your books,” I said.

When his brows lifted, I said, “Not these,” with a wave at the library. “One of the ones you wrote.”

“And you might even read it?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Oh, you’ll try it out of curiosity, even if you’re only taking the book to make me feel better. That’s an odd way of going about it, don’t you think? A book from the author ought to be the gift, not the act of accepting it. However, the fact that you’re actually asking is a step in the right direction, telling me I’m inching toward the realm of valuable ally.”

“Is there a book coming at the end of this speech?”

He led me into another room, a storage area with shelves of his own work. He took one off the shelf.

“Do you like sex?” he asked.

Gabriel cleared his throat behind me.

“I mean in books.”

“In general, I’m fine with it. Do I want to read a sex scene knowing you wrote it? No.”

“You’re missing out. Bòcan are naturally gifted lovers. We have an endless well of creativity.”

Gabriel’s throat clearing now had a bit of growl attached. “I will warn that the direction of this conversation is ill-advised. Olivia will not appreciate your attempts at flirtation.”

“And neither will you?”

“You aren’t flirting with me.”

Patrick laughed. “I do believe you just made a joke, Gabriel. Liv’s influence is, indeed, delightful to see. But no, I’m not flirting with her. That would be wrong. Many shades of wrong. I was merely telling her it’s a gift that bòcan possess and share with their offspring—”

“Stop,” I said, skewering him with a look that Gabriel couldn’t see. “Give me one without sex. Please.”

“Does this mean I can’t count on you to beta-read my sex-slave-lamiae story?”

I made a move to leave.

“Fine,” Patrick said. “Take this. It’s one of my gothics. The seventies were, sadly, not the time to include sex scenes of any satisfying nature. When the lights go out, you can imagine the hero and heroine are lying in bed, fully clothed, making shadow puppets on the wall. However, if you want to know what I was imagining them doing—”

“No, I do not,” I said, taking the book. “Thank you, Patrick. And goodbye.”

“Wait, don’t you want that signed?”

“Only if it’ll get me more on eBay.”

R
ose
had invited us to dinner, which we’d accepted. Gabriel suggested I go over early and take tea with her while he ran errands. I texted to be sure that was okay with Rose. It was.

As I walked in, I held out Patrick’s novel. “Book?”

“Embrace the Shadows
?” Rose said.

“Sounds hokey, I know. Believe me, I have no intention of actually reading this crap.”

“It’s actually quite good.”

I looked at her as we walked into the parlor. “You’ve, uh, read it?”

“I like crap.”

My cheeks heated. “I didn’t mean—I’m more a mystery buff, but I’ve read my share of romances, too. Mostly historical, including a few gothics. The crap comment was directed at the author.”

“Patrice Rhys? As I said, she’s actually very good. I read most of her work as a teen. She stopped writing in the late seventies.”

“Umm, no, actually he hasn’t.” I sat in a chair across her desk.

“He?” She paused and glanced toward the door. “Gabriel said you were at Patrick’s. That’s …?”

“Yep.”

She sighed. “Wonderful. Now I’ll have to decide whether to tell him I enjoyed his work and risk inflating his ego.”

“You’ll get free books if you tell him, and his new series apparently has lots of sex.”

“Which is why, despite knowing he writes
those
, I’ve never tried them. I have no issue with the concept. Done right, it can get you through many a cold night. But knowing who wrote those scenes …”

“Yep. Kinda what I said.”

She headed for the kitchen. “If he’s also Patrice Rhys, though, I might have to check them out now. I’ll just skip the sex.”

I stopped on my way to the desk and walked to a table bearing a bottle and a pair of very old socks with the toes cut out.

“Okay,” I called. “I’m not sure about the bottle, but these socks are definitely new.”

“They are,” she called back. “Both belonged to Daniel Dunglas Home.”

“Oh, I know this one. Mr. Sludge the Medium.
Now, don’t, sir! Don’t expose me! Just this once! This was the first and only time, I’ll swear.”

“You know your Browning.”

“I’d be a poor Victorian lit major if I didn’t.”

Admittedly, Home’s connection to Conan Doyle was what made me remember it. He was one of the writer’s favorite spiritualists. Browning had not been nearly so impressed, as the poem suggested. It seems Home materialized a blob of flesh that he said was Browning’s son who died in infancy. Not having had a son die in infancy, Browning called foul, reached over, and discovered the fleshy blob was Home’s foot. He’d wear shoes he could easily take off and then socks with the toes cut out so he could ring bells and tug clothing under the table.

I picked up the tiny bottle. “But this bottle …”

“Open it,” she called from the kitchen, her words barely audible over a clatter of dishes.

I did. The inside glowed. Phosphorus, to make glowing, ghostly hands. I smiled and took my seat as Rose came in with the tea and cookies.

“I want to do a reading for you. And don’t give me that look, Liv. I know you don’t like glimpses into your future.”

“You’ve said the cards only reveal the consequences of the path I’m on, so I can change it, but I still don’t like …” I shifted in my seat. “Isn’t it tempting? To keep peeking?”

“I don’t see
my
future.”

“But it could be tempting for someone like me. Every time there’s a fork in the road, come to you to see which prong I should take.”

A faint smile, not unlike her great-nephew’s. “You have a hard-enough time asking the advice of a friend before choosing a path. You certainly aren’t going to get hooked on consulting the cards. But yes, people do. I recognize the addicts, and I fleece them only as much as they can afford to be fleeced, while teaching them a valuable lesson.”