Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (16 page)

A
re we okay?” I asked Gabriel as we walked back to Rose’s.

Dusk was deepening to night, but he still had his shades on. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“We’ve had a rough couple of days,” I said. “The visions, Macy, Todd, James. It’s been a roller coaster. Between us, too. We’re fine and then . . . we’re not. I know that’s because of everything that’s happening. Stress and tension. But I feel as if I’m the one instigating it—”

He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his pocket. “You aren’t. It is, as you said, fallout from the situation. For both of us.”

“Then what I’m trying to say is that I understand if you need a break. From the strain. From the angst. From me.”

That wall behind his eyes shot up. “If you mean that you need a break—”

“If I needed one, I’d say so.”

“If I want one, I will take one.”

“Sorry. I’m just feeling a little frazzled.”

“And I’m not helping.”

“Sometimes . . . ?” I shrugged. “But ninety-five percent of the time? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d manage,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I wouldn’t want to.”

“You won’t need to,” he said, and we finished the walk in silence.

—

Since I’d last spoken to Rose, I’d had at least three episodes—if I counted all the visions at the Villa as a single one. So, lots to talk about, right? Not really. They didn’t boil down to much that needed her folklore expertise.

We discussed the fae massacre at Villa Tuscana and the result: the kelpies murdering Letitia. Rose confirmed that they were indeed kelpies. As for the blue fire used to slaughter the fae, she had no idea what it was. Some metal salts could turn fire blue. The only metal she knew that was supposed to affect fae was iron, and while I’d seen the men sowing iron filings to trap them, we were all a little confused about exactly how that worked. It seemed simple in the vision: the fae couldn’t come in contact with iron. But there had to be plenty of iron in Cainsville, and no one made any apparent effort to avoid it. Which suggested the issue was more complicated than that.

What I really wanted to discuss was Mallt-y-Nos, Gwynn ap Nudd, and Arawn—who they were and what they had to do with us. I couldn’t tell her about the Gabriel connection in front of him. I had to figure that out before I brought him into it.

“Arawn is from the Mallt-y-Nos folklore,” she said when I finished describing what I’d experienced. “But Gwynn ap Nudd . . . ? There is a connection, but to Arawn, not Matilda.” She got up from her desk. “The vision you had before the fever was a version of the Mallt-y-Nos legend,” she said as she perused her bookshelves.

“Right,” I said. “A young woman—Matilda—is about to get married. She loves to hunt, but has promised her future husband she’ll give it up for him. But she wants one last hunt on the eve of their wedding. He says it’s past midnight, and she made a vow. She thinks she still has time and leaves in spite of his protests. She loses him and is cursed to hunt forever as Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda the Crone. Very flattering. Except in my vision, she ran back to her betrothed and the palace was gone, and she fell into flames and perished.”

“Or so it seemed. The hunt is
the
Hunt. We know that.” Rose took down a book. “The Wild Hunt. Cwn Annwn. In your vision, it’s represented by the man Matilda runs to meet. That would be Arawn. Lord of the Otherworld. Leader of the Wild Hunt.”

“Which makes sense. But in the stories, the fiancé she leaves behind is just some random nobleman. In my vision, he’s definitely otherworldly. Blond guy, all sunshine and daylight and gold. Fae, I’m guessing.”

“Gwynn ap Nudd.”

“Right. He said that he was Gwynn and I was Matilda. We were getting married, and Matilda wanted Arawn to know, but Gwynn didn’t want to tell him.”

“A love triangle, then.”

“I never got that impression. Matilda said she was friends with Arawn, but that he and Gwynn were also friends. When she went to meet Arawn that night, there was no sense that she was running off with a lover or reconsidering the marriage to Gwynn. She’d made her choice. It really was about the joy of the hunt—and sharing it with a good friend. Gwynn couldn’t accept that.”

“Jealousy.”

“I guess, but it still boils down to the basic question: What the hell does this have to do with me?”

Gabriel had been silent until now, listening. He shifted, folding his hands on the table. “An answer I don’t think we’re going to get until you have the full story.”

“Until I see the full vision.”

He shook his head. “If Rose can figure it out, then there should be no need of the visions.”

“Except
Rose
can’t figure it out,” his aunt said as she lowered herself back into her seat, book in hand. “It’s only following the folklore to an extent. Matilda and Mallt-y-Nos? Yes. Olivia’s vision is similar enough to a version of Matilda’s story. Arawn fits, too. But Gwynn?”

She opened the book to an entry on Gwynn ap Nudd.

“Arthurian legend?” I said. “Please tell me I’m reading that wrong.”

“It’s one variation. Gwynn was said to be a member of King Arthur’s court who annually fought another member over the most beautiful woman in the land. Who was also his sister.”

“And he was fighting to protect her honor, right? Pure brotherly love.”

“Depends on the version you’re looking at. In some—”

“Let’s stick with brotherly love.”

“So there’s that version, a reshaping of local folklore, like most Arthurian legends. In older accounts, Gwynn is the king of the Tylwyth Teg, which seems closer to what you’ve seen. But there’s confusion there, too. Sometimes he’s Welsh fae. Other times he’s more closely associated with the Cwn Annwn and merges with Arawn. Even the etymology of his name is confusing. Ap Nudd just means ‘son of Nudd.’ Gwynn means ‘bright or shining,’ but he’s usually described as dark—a great warrior with a blackened face. He’s linked to woodland, again like the Cwn Annwn. And to owls, which would seem the arena of the Cwn Annwn, too, but . . .”

“They aren’t,” I said. “Ravens are Cwn Annwn and owls are Tylwyth Teg.” I asked her to hand me the book and I skimmed the entry, seeing the same mess of contradictions that Rose described. I put the book down. “None of this helps.”

“Because the answer isn’t here,” she said, tapping the cover. “Your visions reveal the truth
behind
the folklore.”

Which did not help me one bit. More questions than answers, with no idea what difference those answers made to my life.

—

I’d planned to stay up, working with Gabriel, until Ricky returned. But while it was barely past ten, I was exhausted, and I think “someone” texted to tell Ricky I was falling asleep on my laptop, because at 10:15 I got a message from Ricky telling me he’d be another hour at least, and I should go to sleep. Rose was leaving the front door unlocked so he could take the sofa without disturbing anyone.

I texted back to say I wanted him to wake me when he got there. His response wasn’t exactly a refusal, but when I woke after midnight, I was alone in Rose’s guest room.

I found Ricky in the parlor, sitting on the sofa, lost in thought. Troubled thoughts, his face pensive and half shadowed. The breeze from the open front window ruffled his hair, a tendril tickling his cheek. Normally he’d brush it back, but he just sat there, his gaze fixed on the window, a haunted look in his eyes.

Gabriel and I weren’t the only ones stuck on this roller coaster. Ricky was just better at hiding it and more comfortable being the guy in charge of cheering everyone else up. As I stepped into the room, the floor creaked, and he was on his feet, ready for trouble. Then he saw me.

“Tonight didn’t go so well?”

He frowned, as if not sure what I meant. Then he shook his head. “Nah, it was fine. Routine shit. How are you holding up?”

“Managing. I’m more worried about you right now. You were a long way away when I came down, and it looked like you’d settled in for a night of that.”

He made a face. “Just thinking about some stuff.”

He came to me and one hand went around my waist, the other to the back of my neck. He pulled me in for a sweet and gentle kiss. When it broke, he stayed there, his hand against the back of my neck, his face an inch from mine. His eyes closed and he gave a shuddering sigh. Then he kissed me again, something else there this time, a caution that spoke as much of uncertainty as tenderness.

“What’s wrong?” I said when the kiss ended.

He hesitated, then took my hand and tugged me over to the sofa. We settled in together, me on his lap, turned to face him.

He cupped my chin, pulling me in for another slow kiss. Then he held me there, so close I could see nothing except his eyes.

“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” he said. “
Never
.”

“Okay . . .”

“I’ve made a mistake, Liv. A huge one. At the time . . . At the time, it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. The
only
thing to do. I was so worried about you, and all I wanted was for you to be safe.”

“What happened?”

“I was . . .” He inhaled. “It was after—”

A throat clearing cut him short. Gabriel stood in the doorway, still in his dress shirt, tie off, pen in hand.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “I was working in the kitchen hoping to speak to you.”

“We’re going back to my place,” I said. “You two can talk in the morning.”

“It can’t wait,” Gabriel said. “Ricky?”

I started to protest, but Ricky cut me short with a squeeze of my hand.

“He’s right,” he said. “Go on back to bed.”

“But—”

“You’re tired. I’m out of sorts and keeping you up. We’ll talk later.”

“You’ll come get me?”

“I will.”

A
bout twenty minutes later, Ricky slipped into the bedroom. I started to rise. He held out a hand to stop me.

“Gabriel wants us to stay here,” he whispered. “Something about an encounter you had earlier? Is there a problem?”

“No, he’s just being cautious. I’d prefer to go to my place.”

“So would I.” He rolled his eyes toward the door. “But I’d rather not piss him off when he’s sticking close to help.”

Ricky peeled off his shirt. I tried not to watch—I hate window-shopping, and there was no chance of a purchase tonight. When he got to the jean-shucking, though, my resolve buckled.

“Keep looking at me like that . . .” he murmured as he folded his clothing onto a chair.

“I know.” I sighed. “Just too damned tempting.”

He chuckled as he climbed into bed. “While I’m perfectly willing to satisfy that temptation . . .”

“It’s not the time or the place,” I said. “I know.”

He pulled me against him. “About earlier. What I was trying to say is that I feel like shit about . . . well, about . . .”

“James?”

He exhaled, air hissing through his teeth. “Yeah. Definitely not what you want to talk about.”

“I’d rather talk about it than lie awake worrying about what’s bothering you.”

He nodded. “It’s just that I feel bad. I was so pissed off at him. For good reason, considering how he was treating you. But whatever James did, it was hard for you hearing me talk about your ex like he was some dirtbag psycho. That obviously wasn’t the guy you got engaged to. I mishandled the situation, and I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t hurt me or mishandle it. Yes, it was tough. I felt like it reflected badly on me, plus it might scare you off. I’m just sorry that it happened. That all of it happened.”

I was about to pull back, a fresh wave of grief rising, but he took my face in his hands and pulled me down into a kiss. When it broke, he held me there.

“You could never scare me away, Liv. I hope you know that.”

I nodded, and he tugged me into an embrace. When at last I shifted to settle in for sleep, he looked up—way up. I followed his gaze to see TC perched on the headboard.

“That’s a little unsettling,” he said.

“TC? Down.”

He did jump down—onto Ricky, who let out an
oomph
. I went to scoop up TC, but he gave me a baleful glare and lay down on Ricky’s chest and curled up.

“Congratulations,” I said. “You now own a cat. Don’t forget to take him when you go.”

“Didn’t I just say I’m not going anywhere?”

“Damn. Well, at least he likes someone.”

“Oh, he likes you just fine. This is a warning. If I try to jump you in the night, he’ll rip my heart out.”

I laughed softly and he pulled me against his side. I closed my eyes, and before I knew it, I was asleep.

—

I was in the kitchen the next morning, helping Rose with breakfast. Gabriel was at the table, busy on his laptop. Ricky had taken over the parlor desk to work on an assignment for school. As I washed berries, I said to Rose, “So, do you feel like you’re running a boardinghouse?”

“Starting to,” she said, putting a tin of muffins into the oven. “I might charge rent. And impose curfews. Seemed like doors were opening and closing half the night.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Ricky and I planned to go back to my place, but—”

“No,” Gabriel said, without looking up from his computer.

“I don’t see why—”

“Would you like a list? Let’s start with the fact that you seem to be sliding into visions randomly and end with the one where at least two very powerful fae really would prefer your boyfriend went home. As long as—”

My phone rang. “Saved by the bell,” I said, then looked down at the incoming call and blinked. “Oh, hell. Shit, shit, shit.”

“If that’s a reporter—” Gabriel began, his hand extended for the phone.

“No, it’s my mother. I completely forgot, she’s coming home this weekend.”

It’d been weeks since I’d spoken to her directly. Lena hadn’t taken the media onslaught very well. She’d fled to Europe to hide under the wings of protective friends. When I wouldn’t do the same . . . well, I’d like to say she was angry because she thought that was best for me, but I suspect it was because it would have made things easier for her. Everyone has people like my mother in their lives. They’re frustrating and flawed, and there are things both in them and in our relationships with them that we’d like to change, but ultimately we have to accept who they are.

I answered the phone with, “Hey, Mum.”

“Olivia. I heard the news. I’m so sorry.”

Shit! Of course.

“I should have called you,” I said. “I just . . . I’m the one who found him, and I haven’t been thinking clearly. I’m sorry.”

“I wasn’t blaming you for not calling. Despite what happened between you two, I know how much you cared for him.”

I exhaled and lowered myself into the chair across from Gabriel. “Thanks. Yes, the situation makes it awkward. I’m holed up avoiding reporters. I don’t know what I’ll do about the funeral and . . . Maybe we can talk about that. How to handle it. When are you getting in?”

“I’m not coming home, Olivia.”

“What?”

“Given what’s happened, this would hardly be the time.”

“But the funeral—he was . . . he was almost your son-in-law, and you’ve known his family forever.”

“I can hardly go to the funeral of a man my daughter left at the altar.”

I gripped the phone. “I did not—”

“James stuck by you, Olivia.”

“Um, no, he—”

“He got over the shock of your parentage and tried to make amends, and you wouldn’t let him. You had your reasons, but to outsiders, it does not reflect well on our family.”

Gabriel pushed his chair back, a hard look in his eyes. Eavesdropping and making no secret of it.

“I understand you wanted to tough it out,” Mum went on. “My concern is . . . You’re twenty-four, Olivia. In a few months you’ll be old enough for your trust fund, reaching the age where your father and I agreed you’d be mature enough to handle the responsibility. But in recent weeks you broke off an engagement to a wonderful man, and began investigating your birth parents’ crimes with a man that our family lawyer has nothing good to say about. Now James is dead—murdered—and you’re dating a member of a motorcycle gang. All I can hope is that last is some misguided publicity stunt to divert attention from your birth situation.”

“No, I—”

“He’s a biker, Olivia. And according to the papers, he’s two years younger than you.” She said it as if that was as bad as dating a criminal.

“Whatever’s happening to me has nothing to do with attending James’s funeral. We need to pay our respects—”

“We?”
Her voice rose. “I certainly hope you don’t intend to go.”

“I was engaged to him, Mum. I’d never march up and stand at his graveside, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go, discreetly, and pay my respects.”

“After you . . . ?” She trailed off.

“After I what?” I said, my voice thick with warning. “What exactly did I do that strips me of the right to mourn James?”

You killed him. Maybe you didn’t wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze the life from him, but you caused this. You know you did.

I didn’t catch what my mother said; I only heard the accusation in my head. I lowered the phone. Gabriel reached over to take it, but I lifted it again to discover my mother had hung up.

—

“I know it’s important to you to go to the funeral,” Ricky said as he peeled off his muffin wrapper. The four of us were at the kitchen table. “You could do it exactly as you suggested. Go to the graveside service, where you can hang back—”

“There’s no reason for her to hang back,” Gabriel said. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

“It’s about propriety and respect,” I said. “I’d hardly honor his memory by turning his funeral into a prime-time news event.”

“Obviously, I’d like to go with you,” Ricky said. “But
that
would extend a big middle finger to his family. I’ll be nearby, in case you need me. Someone, though, should escort—”

“I will,” Gabriel said.

“Actually, I was going to ask Rose. James had you charged with assault and his mother was the one who called the police.”

“His mother won’t see either of us. For anyone who does spot us, my presence would merely signal that Olivia should not attend without accompaniment.”

We debated it some more, but Gabriel had made up his mind. If I was going, so was he.