"Yes," I said. "I'll be working with Gabriel."
Ida smiled. "Excellent. Then we'll provide you with anything we can."
As I walked up behind Patrick, he lifted his empty coffee cup as if he recognized the sound of my steps.
I retrieved the pot. "I'm officially still on lunch," I said as I filled his mug.
"Which means you'll get a much better tip today. In fact, I think I'll double it."
"Awesome. What's double of nothing?"
He smiled. "My favor is much more valuable than any monetary reward."
"Good, because I need to draw on that favor." I sat down across from him. "You know some Welsh, right?"
"I do." He closed his laptop. "Let's step outside."
"This will only take a second. One word. Maybe two--I can't tell with Welsh. It sounds like coon anoon."
Patrick went still, and the hairs on my neck rose. I turned to see a half-dozen pairs of old eyes fixed on me. They all glanced away quickly, as if I'd imagined it, but was I imagining, too, that the noise level had dropped to nothing? As if no one wanted to miss what I said next? Which would be a little creepy, if that wasn't par for the course in Cainsville. For a bunch of folks past retirement age, they all have very good hearing--or top-notch hearing aids.
"You know the word?" I asked Patrick.
"Say it again?"
I did. He frowned, his eyes going to the side as if accessing memories. That frown didn't go away, which told me he wasn't finding what he was looking for.
"It sounds vaguely familiar, but no."
"You know Welsh, Patrick?" said a voice beside us.
I looked over to see Ida looming as much as a woman barely over five feet tall can loom.
"Liv said you know Welsh?" she said.
"I'm a man of many talents."
"But you don't know what Cwn Annwn means?" I said.
"I do not."
I had one hand in my pocket, gripping the boar's tusk. I'd considered showing it to him, but as I thought that, I could feel the weight of his gaze on me.
Not here. Not here.
He wasn't communicating a telepathic message or anything so New Agey. It was his body language communicating the message that he wasn't comfortable talking in front of the old folks.
Sometimes in Cainsville, I felt like the new girl at school, with the popular clique calling dibs on my friendship. That's great, but I was really more intrigued by the weird guy in the corner. While the weird guy is quite willing to mock the clique, he knows his boundaries, too, and poaching the new girl too openly is beyond those limits. I'd talk to Patrick later.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I'd taken Ricky up on his offer of a walk instead of coffee. We met at Burnham Park and walked along the lakefront. We were talking about his classes when my phone rang. I hit Ignore. Gabriel called again, then broke down and texted, telling me to check my e-mail. I apologized to Ricky before I did, but two calls and a text could mean it was urgent news about Pamela.
I read Gabriel's e-mail, cursed, and shoved the phone into my pocket.
"Pamela?"
"No, a job offer."
After I told him about it, he said, "Knowing Gabriel and his wallet, he's offering you about the same as you'd make waiting tables, right?"
"Not exactly. Triple my hourly rate at the diner."
"Shit. That's not bad. And this is a job you actually want." He lifted a hand against my protest. "I saw you work with him, Liv, and I've heard you talk about it. The only problem? Gabriel. You guys are on the outs. No, he didn't tell me. Your name came up, though, and I've known Gabriel long enough to tell something was wrong."
"I'd rather not explain, because he's your lawyer, too. I'll only say that what happened wasn't a reflection on his legal ability."
"Obviously, or you'd have kicked his ass off Pamela's case." A group of joggers veered around us, Ricky having made no move to get out of their way. "You feel as if, by accepting his offer, he wins. But if you don't take it, you lose."
"No, I--"
"Yes, if you don't take it, you lose. You want this job. But it means going back to someone who hurt you."
"He didn't--"
"Can you look at it another way? Who's the one taking the real chance here? The professional and financial risk? Gabriel. A guy who does not take risks. Not personal. Not professional. Certainly not financial."
"Exactly. So what's his endgame?"
Ricky paused at the water's edge, hands shoved into his pockets as he looked out over the lake. "Ah, that's the problem. You don't trust the offer is genuine."
"He just made a generous job offer, for a research and investigative position . . . to a debutante waitress with a degree in Victorian lit. He's up to something."
"Gabriel's always up to something. But if you're looking for an ulterior motive here, I don't see it. Again, flip it around. He's busy. He's turning down clients, well-paying clients. Now that he has Pamela's case, it'll only get worse. One thing they teach you in business school? As soon as you can afford it, delegate, as much as possible. Gabriel should have done that years ago, but he has very particular needs. You know what happened in Desiree's apartment. Did you ever threaten to tell anyone?"
"Of course not."
"Exactly. One more reason you are that very rare person Gabriel could hire to fix his staffing problem. There's no endgame, Olivia. I'd stake my bike on it."
I chuckled. "You might not want to do that. I've never ridden one, but I'm a fast learner and I bet it's got more horsepower than my Jetta."
"Probably. But my offer for a ride is still open."
"Uh-huh. I know all about that deal. And as attractive as it is . . ."
He laughed, then sobered. "All joking aside, yeah, the rule is: only girlfriends and wives on the back of the bike. But I'm not going to be a dick about it. If you want a ride--on the bike, nothing else--ask. Just promise never to tell anyone. Back to the wager, though, I totally would bet my bike, because I know, while it's never a sure thing to bet against Gabriel's capacity for duplicity, in this case I think he's on the level." He turned toward me. "I'm not saying to forgive him. Just don't let your personal issues stop you from getting what you want professionally, or he's done double the damage. It's not an indentured servant contract. You lose nothing by giving it a shot. Think about it, okay?"
"I will."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On my way home, I called Rose and asked to speak to her. She was free at seven, and at 6:55 I was walking through her door.
"Okay," I said as I pulled off my shoes. "I have a question that requires all your fortune-telling skills."
"Excellent." She ushered me into the parlor. "What is it?"
"Exactly how big an idiot am I if I agree to work for Gabriel?"
"I can tell you that without even checking the cards."
"Let me guess. It will be the best decision I could possibly make, and I'll never regret it."
"Oh, no, I'm sure you'll regret it. Many times. As I'm sure it's not the best decision you'll ever make. It will, however, rank near the top. He will make mistakes. So will you. There will be times when we'd best hope there are no firearms at hand. Ultimately, though, it is the first step on a life course that will make you happier and more satisfied than any other."
"Uh-huh. I'd rather go with the cards."
"Are you serious?" she said, sliding into her chair.
I slumped into mine and sighed. "As tempting as it is to ask for otherworldly reassurance, this is one mistake I need to make myself. I called him before I came over. I start work tomorrow. I may leave my gun at home. Just in case." I straightened. "That's settled. Now let's head straight to the real reason I'm here. You don't know Welsh, do you?"
"Welsh?"
"Yeah, it's a long shot, I know."
"Not so long. Walshes originally came from Wales--"
"--before moving to Ireland, where they got their name because it means Welshman. Well, the translation is 'foreigner,' but literally
it means Welshman."
"Very good."
"About this question, though. I have a feeling it falls under the same very broad heading as omens, second sight, and fae."
"Really?" She shifted, interest piqued. "What is it?"
"Cwn Annwn. Don't ask me to spell it. From what I've learned of Welsh, you can probably count on it having no more than one vowel."
"I suspect you're right. I don't recognize the word, but I'll take a stab at the spelling and do some research." She waved at the floor-to-ceiling wall of old books behind her. "If it's in there, I'll find it. You're sure it's Welsh?"
"No, but it's a solid guess."
"Where did you hear it?"
I told her the whole story of my meeting with the man at the charity dinner. When I finished, she sat there, speechless.
"I'd drank half a glass of champagne," I said. "And taken no drugs that I'm aware of. Plus, he gave me this." I laid the boar's tusk on the table. "Which seems to prove I didn't temporarily fall down the rabbit hole, as much as it seemed like it."
"I don't doubt you, Olivia. I'm just . . . I've heard of such things. Meetings . . ." She trailed off. "You say you smelled horses?"
I nodded. "I smelled forest, too, and I heard pounding hooves and baying hounds. I asked him if that"--I pointed at the tusk--"would protect me from the hounds. He said I didn't need protection from them. He knew what I was talking about."
"Horses. Hounds. Cwn Annwn." She fell quiet, thinking.
"There was something about salt, too. I wouldn't take the drink from him, and he said I was misapplying my folklore. That I only had to be worried if he offered me salt."
"That's a common motif in fae lore. Eat their food or drink their wine and you'll never be able to leave."
"That's it," I said. "He said taking a drink from him wouldn't trap me."
"Horses. Hounds. Forest. Salt." She inhaled sharply. "The Hunt."
She leapt up so fast she startled me. Moments later she had a book in her hand, flipping through it as she came back to her chair. She set it in front of me.
I looked down at an old painting of wild-haired hunters on wild-eyed steeds, accompanied by fearsome black hounds. And boars. And ravens.
The hair on my neck prickled.
The heading on the facing page? Cwn Annwn. Literally, the hounds of the Otherworld. Better known as the Wild Hunt. They escorted the dead to the afterlife. According to the lore, if you heard the howling of the hounds, you would die.
"Um, not liking that part," I said, pointing.
"It's true, though. You will die. Someday. I can guarantee it."
I gave her a look.
"Well, you heard the hounds baying last night, and you're still alive, aren't you? Did it sound soft or loud?"
"Soft."
"They were close, then. That's the lore--the louder they are, the farther they are." She pulled out her chair and sat. "There are stories of the Wild Hunt from all across the British Isles and onto the Continent. Their appearance, their purpose, even their intentions--good, evil, indifferent--it all changes, depending on who you ask." She closed the book. "I'll compile what I can. I doubt we'll determine their true purpose, but it can't hurt."
"Their true . . . ? You actually think I saw . . . ?"
"My great-grandmother told me she saw them once, around here. She was a teenager, sneaking off to meet a boy, and she heard the hounds. She ran, but it was too late. They rode right past her, men on flaming black steeds, wearing cloaks with hoods that hid their faces save for glowing red eyes. One of the riders slowed and called out in a terrible voice, telling her to stay out of the woods on the eve of St. Martin. She ran home and immediately gave all her prized possessions to family and friends, as she prepared for her death. She lived to ninety-seven."
"Well, that part's comforting. I'm not so sure about the flaming steeds."
"I have a better account of her story written down here somewhere. I'd tell it to my babysitting charges when they wanted spooky tales. Seanna used to beg me for it. When Gabriel was born, everyone presumed she'd named him after the archangel. I knew better. There's another name for the Wild Hunt: Gabriel's Hounds."
"Kinda thinking she'd have been better off naming him after the angel."
"Oh, I don't know. Archangel or hound from hell . . . with Gabriel, it depends on the day."
"Not sure I see the angelic part."
She took the last cookie from the plate. "He offered you the job of your dreams, didn't he?"
"I don't think angels are supposed to grant wishes."
"They should. It would make them much more interesting." She polished off the cookie and wiped away the crumbs. "Now, to bed with you. Put this aside for now."
I took my keys from my pocket.
"Uh-uh," she said. "Upstairs."
"I have a security system now."
"Which will not help you against otherworldly beings. You'll stay here until I've consulted the cards tomorrow and taken a better look at that tusk. I believe I mentioned my house is warded." She looked at me. "You thought I was joking? I was not. You're safe here. Now off to bed. Gabriel expects you in the morning, and he'll be more hellhound than angel if you're late."
CHAPTER TWENTY
As it turned out, I didn't need to get an early start the next morning. Gabriel called saying he had an urgent meeting and wouldn't be in the office until ten thirty.
I decided to head into the city early and pick up a coffee for James. I garnered a few looks in the coffee shop, but I ignored them, as I'd been ignoring the whispers and glances for weeks.
I also ignored the first text message from Ricky--a simple You around? check-in. Then he sent a second one: Call me. ASAP. Kinda important. As I waited for the elevator, I managed to shift the coffees to one hand and speed-dial with the other. Yes, Ricky was on speed dial already, but only because not many people were anymore and, well, yes, we did talk a few times a day.
"What's up?" I said when he answered. I could hear the sound of a lecturer in the background. "You're in class? How about I call back--"
"Hold on."
A whispered "Excuse me," then his footsteps tapping quickly down stairs, the lecturer's voice growing louder. The whoosh of a door. The lecturer's voice faded. Ricky's footfalls continued, taking him past a loud group of students in the hall.
"Have you seen the Post this morning?" he asked when it was quiet again.
"These days, I don't see the Post any morning I can avoid it." The Trib and the Sun-Times had begun losing interest in my story weeks ago. The Post had not.
"Yeah, I don't blame you. But you might want to grab a copy."
I swore. The elevator dinged.
"Where are you?" Ricky asked.
"James's office. Taking him coffee before--"
"Don't get on the elevator," he cut in.
"Um, too late," I said as the doors closed. "What's up?"
He said he was going to e-mail me something. It came through almost immediately, as the packed elevator made the slow climb to James's floor at the top. I opened the e-mail, checked the attachment, and . . .
My chest seized. "Shit."
"Yeah. I'm sorry. If I'd caught anyone taking that . . ." Ricky trailed off, threat unfinished. "I'm sorry."
I lowered my voice. "You're not the idiot who chose a favorite coffee haunt."
"I don't think that would have mattered. Eventually someone was going to . . . I'd say 'catch us,' but that implies we were sneaking around. Actually, it's better that it was your usual spot. Clearly we weren't hiding. That should help."
He sounded about as convinced as I felt. "I'll talk to my dad and explain it," he said.
"I'll handle James."
"Okay. Call me later?" he said.
"I will."
A pause. Then, "Will you?"
"Of course."
When I hung up, we were nearly at James's floor. Two other riders were staring at me. One looked away and whispered to her companion when I glanced over. I knew w
hat she was talking about. A picture in the Post. With a caption, explaining that Pamela and Todd Larsen's daughter--former debutante and fiancee of James Morgan--had been spotted having coffee with the son of biker club Satan's Saints president Don Gallagher.
There was nothing incriminating in the photo. I was leaning back, casual and at ease, laughing. Ricky leaned forward, talking, his forearms on the table. It did not look like a romantic assignation. But it did look . . . intimate.
I quickly texted James to tell him I was coming and there was something we needed to talk about. The answer came back as I stepped off the elevator. All right. With those two words, I knew he'd seen the picture. I slowed, in case he was about to text back not to come to his office.
He didn't.
So I began the long walk. Down the corridor. Through the lounge--an open area where executives could hang out, chat, hold informal meetings. The minute I stepped into that open area, with executives and support staff milling about, I felt like I'd embarked on the walk of shame, that morning-after scurry from a one-night stand, ripped panty hose in your purse, makeup smeared, hair an unholy mess, cocktail dress and heels at 8 A.M. It didn't matter if I was perfectly dressed and groomed. It didn't matter if I'd only been "caught" having coffee with an attractive guy. It didn't matter if I wasn't engaged to James again, wasn't even in a committed relationship again. I still felt shame.
Because I wanted more than coffee with Ricky.
I made it to the desk of James's admin assistant, Karen. We'd always gotten along great. Today, I had only to look at her expression to know not to ask about her kids.
James opened his door as if he'd been waiting there. He ushered me in and told Karen to hold his calls.
"You've seen the Post," I said as he closed the door behind us.
"My mother sent it to me."
He walked behind his desk. Which left me to sit in front of it, like an errant employee. That rankled, but the lingering shame kept my annoyance from crystallizing into anger.
"I'm sorry," I said, still standing. "I just found out about it on the elevator or I wouldn't have shown up like this. I was coming by to say hi." I pointed at the coffee cups I'd set on his desk.
"Did he warn you?"
The way he said "he" rankled, too, harder now, anger sparking, but I pushed it down.
"It was just coffee," I said. "If it was anything else, I'd never have gone where I could be recognized." I finally took my seat. "These days, anywhere I go, I could be recognized. But I'm trying to forget that I'm news. Trying to live my life as if I'm not. That's all I can do, James, or I lock myself away and hide. I can't do that."