"My mother is ill," he said slowly. "I do not appreciate levity."
"I...I'm--"
"If you wish to discuss this case again, please contact Olivia. I suspect you'll find her far more pleasant company. Just do not expect her to divulge any useful information on the case, either. Now, good evening, Ms. Keating."
Three
Olivia
I didn't share my misgivings with Ioan. I couldn't, not after I'd said that it was enough for him to know this man--Keith Barent Johnson--was guilty.
It wasn't enough.
I retreated to put on my cloak and focused on that, as if it would help.
A cloak for Matilda.
It was old. Maybe even ancient. Not hers, though. Not the original Matilda's. That wasn't possible. But there had been other iterations of her, like me, through the centuries, and some had taken their place with the Cwn Annwn. This cloak had belonged to one of those. To a woman whose name I didn't even know, who once stood in a grove like this and donned the cloak for her first ride.
She had chosen the Cwn Annwn. That was what all Matildas were supposed to do. Choose a side. Cwn Annwn or Tylwyth Teg. Whichever she chose received the gift of her power, which was even more critical in the modern world, as fae struggled to find the pure elements--clean water, air and earth--that would sustain them.
I hadn't picked a side. I refused to. I looked back at the original story where Matilda died because Gwynn and Arawn needed her to choose between them, between their worlds. Ever since that, the fae and the Huntsmen have been trying to make her choose. But in the beginning, there was just a girl who loved two boys, a girl who was half Cwn Annwn and half Tylwyth Teg, her best friends the princes of each side. She'd divided her time between the two kingdoms, and the three of them had been inseparable. Best friends, until she'd realized she loved Gwynn as more than a friend, and Arawn couldn't accept that.
When Matilda had been forced to choose, that was when it all went wrong. I decided on her original choice--to divide her time between the two, honor both sides of her self.
It wasn't a perfect solution. In giving part of my power to each, I deprived both of my full strength. But this worked for me. It worked for us--Gabriel and Ricky and me.
The Matilda who wore this cloak did choose, though. Did she turn down the Tylwyth Teg...or were they never part of the equation? Did she have an Arawn? Were they friends? Lovers? And Gwynn? Did he lose, or was he, too, never an option, never someone she met? I had seen all configurations, and I knew I was rare--a Matilda who met both her Gwynn and her Arawn, who knew both Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. A Matilda who faced all the complications that came with that.
I fingered the cloak. It was dark green wool, lined with silk and trimmed in white fur, with a jeweled clasp. Thick and heavy, it smelled of wood fire and forest.
I slipped it on and...
Horses. I heard horses--the pound of hooves, a snort, a whinny. The smell of pine and moss. A flash of fire, the sizzle and pop. A hound baying. The croak of a raven. Laughter. A wordless voice at my ear. Then a scream, cut short--
"Olivia?"
I snapped out of it and stepped into the open to find Ioan waiting. The other Huntsmen were a few dozen feet away, horses stamping.
It might seem as if we should have been in hot pursuit, but the Huntsmen would let the hounds get Johnson deep into the forest, herding him rather than driving him.
While I'd been talking to Ioan, the other Huntsmen had moved the car to the side of the road, shut the door and turned off the lights and ignition. Johnson would vanish here, leaving only an abandoned vehicle. That was one reason for making sure the hounds got him as far into the woods as possible.
"I'm coming up behind you," a voice said. "Just letting you know it's me."
I could tell it was Ricky by his words, but his voice was distorted, as if booming from deep within the cloak's hood.
"Yep, I got the Darth Vader upgrade, too," Ricky said and took a few deep breaths.
He made light to lift the mood but also to reassure me that he was still Ricky. It didn't sound like him. And it sure as hell didn't look like him.
A dark green cloak enveloped his body from the waist up. Black jodhpurs encased his legs, ending in gleaming riding boots. The hood swallowed his face, and when he turned my way, I caught the red glow of eyes.
"Still me," he said. "However freaky the outfit."
His horse had changed, too, losing its glamour and reclaiming its true form--a massive black stallion with a mane and eyes of flame.
Rhyddhad had also shed her glamour, but I'd seen that on rides before now. It was the rest...I held out my arms to see black leather gloves running up to my elbows, and when I stared, the leather gave off a faint orange glow that writhed like flames.
Ricky rode up beside me and lowered his voice. "You okay?"
I nodded.
"Not going to speak?"
"Nope." My voice came out pitched a few octaves higher than usual.
Ricky laughed. "All right, then. We should probably get going."
I nodded, and Ioan waved to the others, telling them it was time.
Four
Olivia
The horses stood at the edge of the forest. Deep within it, I heard the hounds. Ricky rode up beside me.
"They want us to lead," he said.
I nodded.
"You're okay with that?" he asked.
I should have been. I loved this part, as Matilda did in her time. I should have been chomping at the bit as much as the horses, eager to go, eager to hunt.
Yes, I knew this was no recreational gallop through the forest. This was the Hunt. Complete with human target. That would always be difficult. But this time was worse.
I had questions.
Questions Ioan could not answer. Questions I could not answer without halting the Hunt.
I needed faith. Ricky had it, resolve clear in the very set of his shoulders. Firm but not tense. Ready but not eager, either.
He trusted the Cwn Annwn. So did I. More than I ever trusted the Tylwyth Teg.
So why did I hesitate?
Because I was part fae. Ricky was Ioan's grandson, and more than that, he was the true representation of Arawn. He fit into his role better than I did Matilda, better than Gabriel did Gwynn. Seeing him now, in that cloak, I had absolutely no doubt that Ricky was Arawn in every way that counted.
I wanted to be Matilda. For the Cwn Annwn, I wanted to be her. That was what they needed and what I'd vowed to deliver.
"Liv?" Ricky said.
I motioned for him to ride in front of me.
"Pretty sure Matilda leads," he said.
"I'm being generous. But just this once."
He laughed, and it didn't matter if I sounded like a stranger. He heard me. He saw me.
That was faith.
"Go on," I said. "You've earned this."
I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was studying me. Trying to decide whether something was bothering me.
I plucked at the hood. "It fits weird."
He chuckled and then nudged his horse to the mouth of the path. I pulled in behind him. He lifted a gloved hand and counted down with his fingers. Three, two, one...
The moment Tywysog Du lunged forward, Rhyddhad was right behind him.
The horses tore along a path that should have been too small for them, one that would have brushed my shoulders if I walked it. But they whipped through like wind. That was what it felt like: riding the wind, the scenery blurring until it disappeared, even Rhyddhad seeming to vanish beneath me, no longer a creature of bone and muscle but one of spirit and smoke.
I loved speed. I had from my earliest memories of my father, Todd, whirling me around. As I grew up, nothing was ever too fast for me. Nothing was ever fast enough. Not a bicycle, not downhill skis, not even my adoptive father's garage full of classic sports cars. Only Ricky's motorcycle came close, but even that wasn't quite what I ached for.
Riding with the Hunt reminded
me of high school and a boyfriend who I thought shared my love of thrill rides until I took him on the biggest roller coaster at Six Flags, and he declared that was too much. It crossed the line between exhilarating and terrifying. My first ride with the Hunt was like that, sitting behind Ioan. It was incredible, but it was also, perhaps, a little too much.
It wasn't just the speed. As Rhyddhad and I flew through the forest, I seemed to slip between dimensions or layers of time. There was no other way to describe it. She ran, and I caught glimpses of things that my brain couldn't even grasp. I heard impossible sounds and inhaled impossible scents. Some of them left me wanting to leap from Rhyddhad's back and track them down. And others made me hold on tighter, eyes squeezed shut, eager for them to be gone.
It wasn't like that for Ricky. To him, this was like riding the winding, sloping roads on Cape Breton, except doing it at double speed and never having to worry about crashing or losing control. He smelled, saw, and heard only the forest, and it was like crack to his Cwn Annwn blood. The dimension-tripping was mine alone. My Matilda blood, reaching through time or memory, showing me more, whether I wanted it or not.
Since Ioan gave me Rhyddhad, I'd ridden enough that the experience no longer overwhelmed me. Again, it reminded me of that boyfriend, whose name I couldn't even remember. Within an hour, he wanted to try the roller coaster again. We went on it four times that day, and it never lost that edge of terror for him, but he came to enjoy it, like I enjoyed horror films, seeking them out even when I knew they'd give me nightmares. Riding Rhyddhad in her true form still terrified me, but it was the most exhilarating and complex experience imaginable, and so, when I rode that night, I was briefly able to forget my doubts.
When the horses caught up to the cwns, they slowed. I leaned down to run my fingers through Rhyddhad's mane, seeing flame dance between my fingers. Fairy fire, without heat, without danger, endlessly fascinating.
The path widened, and Ricky waved me up beside him as the horses walked. In the distance, I could see Lloergan at the rear of the pack. They loped now that their prey neared exhaustion.
Johnson must have heard the horses behind him. He turned, and he stopped, and he stared. The hounds fanned out in a semi-circle, their heads lowered, growls rippling through the night air. Johnson didn't seem to notice them, though. His gaze was riveted to us. On the spectral horsemen and their flaming steeds.
"Who are you?" he shouted.
Silence answered.
"What are you?" he yelled.
"Judgment," Ricky called.
Yet it wasn't Ricky's voice or even the cloak-distorted version of it. It was Arawn's. I looked over, and that was who I saw from Matilda's memories. Arawn sitting ramrod straight on his steed. No sense of joy emanated from that figure. No excitement, either. Only the grim satisfaction of doing a job that must be done.
"Judgment for what?" Johnson said, his voice rising.
"Keith Johnson," Ioan said, his horse moving up behind ours. "You are guilty of the murder of Alan Nansen."
"Wh-what?"
Confusion rang in Johnson's voice. I told myself it didn't matter. I'd seen men and women break down sobbing in Gabriel's office, begging him to help, swearing they hadn't committed the crime...only to find evidence that they had. Evidence I tucked away because proving that wasn't my job. Before I tucked it away, I showed Gabriel, but only so he'd be prepared for what the prosecution might uncover. Even between ourselves, we never said that our clients were guilty. We knew they were, though. Most of them were.
So I should have heard the confusion in Johnson's voice and rolled my eyes. Yeah, yeah, it wasn't you. You don't know this Nansen guy, and you have no idea what we're talking about.
But I hesitated, and it had nothing to do with Johnson's pleas. His cries were only a reminder of what the ride had wiped from my mind. My own questions.
Ioan had said Keith Johnson murdered a man named Alan Nansen during a home invasion.
"Johnson killed a thief?"
Ioan shook his head. "That would be a justifiable act. We don't punish those who are acting in defense. Nansen was the homeowner."
Which meant that Johnson was the thief. A fifty-something, heavyset thief who drove a late-model Audi and dressed like a stockbroker.
Even as I thought that, I imagined Gabriel's snort. Gabriel, who knew how to pick a lock and wasn't afraid to commit a little B&E in search of answers. Gabriel, who drove a late-model Jaguar and wore custom-made suits.
The car and the suit meant nothing. Maybe Johnson was screwing the guy's wife. Maybe he was committing corporate espionage. Hell, maybe he earned that car and suit through his career as a thief.
So why was I hesitating? Did I look at this man and imagine Gabriel in his place, ripped apart by hounds because he'd broken into a house for information?
Except that wasn't this man's crime. Unlike me, Gabriel carried neither gun nor knife. He accepted the risk for committing a crime, and killing a homeowner to avoid arrest would never occur to him. While Gabriel didn't particularly care about the death of anyone outside his very narrow sphere, his own moral code stated that an innocent person should never die at the hands of someone committing a crime.
Keith Johnson had killed a homeowner while committing a crime. The deceased had fae blood. Therefore, Johnson earned this death, whether he knew it or not. Much like he would have "earned" a bullet from the homeowner if the man had been armed.
It was justified...if that's how it happened.
"Run," Ioan said, his voice startling me from my thoughts.
"What?" Johnson said.
"You heard me. Run."
"I haven't done anything--"
A growl from Brenin cut Johnson short. The big hound feinted...and Johnson ran. The cwns gave chase, and Ricky followed. Rhyddhad danced beneath me, eager to be off but sensing my hesitation.
Ioan rode up alongside me. "You can skip this part, Liv."
The other Huntsmen thundered past in breathtaking blurs of fire and shadow.
"Your part is done," Ioan said.
"Pretty sure I haven't actually done anything yet."
His lips twitched. "Perhaps it wasn't quite as active a role as you're accustomed to, but it was enough. You rode with us. You heard the pronouncement. While normally Matilda leads..."
"I let Ricky. Just this once."
I smiled when I said it, but he studied me, knowing there was more to it. A reticence that did not become Matilda.
I straightened in my saddle and looked toward the baying of the hounds. "I'll lead next time. For now, I'd like to finish."
"You don't need to."
I glanced at him. "Is that a subtle way of telling me not to?"
Now he did smile. "No, just pointing out your options." He peered at me again and then nodded. "You're right. You should finish. Onward then. Let's see if you can catch up."
Five
Gabriel
Gabriel reached Cainsville just after eleven. He parked in front of Rose's house but then strode across the street to a three-story walkup instead, the only apartment building in the small town. Olivia used to live there. In fact, he'd first met her on the path beside it, last year when--
Last year.
It was almost exactly a year, wasn't it? He flipped through a mental calendar. Yes, it would be a year next week. He should get her something for the anniversary. Maybe a scone from the diner. Put it on her breakfast plate, and she'd arch her brows, and he'd say, "I owe you that."
It might take her a few minutes to figure out, but when she did, she'd laugh. They met in that passage when he'd waylaid her, trying to persuade her to sue for a portion of Pamela's book earnings. Olivia had shot him down. Then he'd pickpocketed the scone from her--a scone for her landlord, Grace--and presented to Grace as a gift.
So he owed Olivia a scone.
"It's about time," a voice snapped, and he looked up to see Grace herself, a boggart in a wizened old lady glamour.
Grace stood on the doorstep, her
arms crossed, sunken-eyed glower on Gabriel.
"Taking your sweet time, Gwynn?"
He refrained from telling her not to call him that. One did not give Grace that kind of ammunition.
"Rose said you were out drinking. I presume that explains the smirk on your face crossing the road."
"I don't drink."
"Well, maybe you should start. Might help you deal with this." She waved inside her building. "Alcohol might help us all deal with this."
Gabriel fought a sigh. He'd done well, lifting his mood with memories of meeting Olivia. It couldn't last, though. Even before he reached the doorstep, he could hear Seanna screaming.
He tried not to wince, but Grace noticed, harrumphing as she ushered him in. "Never thought you were a glutton for punishment, Gabriel Walsh."
He glanced over.
"Oh, don't give me that look. You know how I feel about this. You need to stop coming when Rose calls. Better yet, Rose needs to stop calling you to come."
"I've told her to. Insisted on it. Rose doesn't deserve to bear the brunt of this. Nor do the fae here. It is a place of refuge for them. Of peace and rest." He nodded toward the screams. "That is hardly conducive to rest."
"She's like a baby throwing a tantrum. Ignore it, and she'll stop."
"Remind me how many babies you've raised, Grace?"
"One, actually. Which is more than you. More than Rose has, too."
He opened the stairwell door.
"Liv still doesn't know, does she?" Grace called after him.
He didn't answer.
"I should tell her. You know I should."
He turned and looked down the stairs at her. Just looked.
Grace crossed her arms. She didn't say anything, though. She knew better. Just as she knew better than to tell Olivia.
"I don't want to upset her," he said as he resumed climbing the stairs.
"Because she'll be so much less upset when she finds out you've been keeping this from her," Grace called up after him. "She will find out. You know that."
He kept climbing.
"For such a smart man, you can be a damned fool, Gabriel Walsh."
He walked through the stairwell door and continued on until it shut behind him. Then he paused.
Grace was right. Olivia would find out, and she would be furious. He'd fallen into this trap before. Over and over again he'd fallen into it. In the beginning, when he'd lied to Olivia or betrayed her, he'd told himself it was for her, when really, it had just been convenient for him. Gradually, that shifted, and he would do what he was doing now, not lying per se, but failing to tell her something significant because he really did hope to shield her.