"Not much of a blanket," he said.
I laughed softly. "I appreciate the effort. Very sweet." I reached for his hand and tugged him down.
He stretched out beside me, pulling me against him, which was warmer than any blanket. As I snuggled in, he said, "That, um, that was . . ."
"Intense?"
"Hell, yeah." He exhaled. "Intense." He was silent for a moment. "Was it . . . ? I mean, that wasn't quite . . . Is everything okay?"
In his eyes, I saw the real questions. Was it too intense? Did I frighten you? Did I hurt you?
I put my arms around his neck and kissed him, answering that way. After a moment he relaxed, the kiss deepening, his hands on my ass as he pulled me closer.
"Is everything okay with you?" I asked as we broke for breath.
"Hell, yeah. I just wasn't sure if it was too much--"
I cut him off with a kiss. "For the record, I will always let you know if it's too much. I'm pretty sure I was the initiator there, and yes, I was following your lead, but I wouldn't do that just to make you happy. I'm not that selfless."
He smiled. "Okay. Thanks."
A few moments curled up together, light kisses, postponing the inevitable trip back to the cabin. Then he said, "In the forest . . . Did you see . . . ?"
"I saw something."
"Riders?"
I nodded.
"There's a stable nearby," he said. "I suppose that's what it was, but . . ."
"But . . . ?"
He looked at me. "You promised not to mock, right?"
"Absolutely. And I meant it."
He reclined with his arm still around me. I twisted and rested on his chest, my chin propped up.
"It was riders from the stable," he said. "A midnight hunt. Logically, I know that. But when I was a kid, sometimes I'd hear the horses and the hounds, and I'd tell myself it was the Hunt."
"The Hunt?"
"I mentioned that my nana used to tell me stories. She's Irish, and she grew up with all that. I liked it, so she'd pass it on. Stories of fairy traps and enchantments. And the Wild Hunt." He lifted his head. "Have you heard of it?"
I was glad for the darkness, hiding my expression. "I have. Phantom riders and hounds that hunt the living and send them to the afterlife. If you see the Wild Hunt, it's a death omen."
"Nana said you aren't supposed to see them, but only because, if you do, they might be after you. They hunt evil. Spectral vigilantes. I like that version better."
"Nice. You'll have to tell me more of her stories."
"Better yet, you could meet her." He shifted, getting comfortable. "She's off on some hiking tour in Peru for the next few weeks, but when she gets back, if you'd like to meet her . . ."
"I would."
His arm tightened around me. "Good."
"They're your dad's parents, I presume?"
"His mom. His father isn't in the picture. Never was. He sent plenty of money, but there was no contact. That's one reason my dad insisted on keeping me, and made sure my mother stayed in touch."
"Wanting something better for you."
"Yeah." He shifted again and made a face, reaching under him.
"Yes, the ground is cold and rocky."
"That's not it. I'm lying on . . ." He pulled out the boar's tusk. "Um, okay . . ."
"Actually, that's mine. It must have fallen out of my jeans. Did I mention I wouldn't tease you about your superstitions? I have my own. It's a good luck charm."
"Huh." He turned it over in his hands. "I'd remember if I'd seen it before, but it looks familiar. A tooth of some kind?"
"Boar tusk--the tip of one."
"Really? And the writing? What does it mean?"
"I have no idea. I had someone take a look, and she could only decipher enough to figure out it's a protective amulet."
He peered at the etched letters. "It's old, whatever it is. Very cool. Especially this." He ran his thumb over the entwined moon and sun. Then he touched the words under it. "You have no idea what this says?"
"Nope."
"Huh. Well, as hard as I try not to be superstitious, I think you're right. It's good luck. You should keep it close."
"I am." I stuffed it into my jeans. "And I suppose I should put these back on so I don't lose it, which probably means we should head back to the cabin. It is a little nippy out here."
"We'll head back, and I'll get the fireplace roaring."
--
Ricky was having a dream. A bad one. I woke when he kung-fu-chopped me in the neck.
I scrambled up, ready to fight whatever monster had attacked in the night, only to find Ricky tossing and turning, moaning softly. Sweat plastered his hair and soaked the pillow. I tugged the covers off, in case he was just overheated.
He mumbled something I couldn't make out. He kept mumbling it, over and over. I rubbed his sweat-drenched back.
"Ricky?"
More mumbling. Then he shot up so fast he startled me.
"I know," he said, grabbing for me. "I know it."
His eyes were wild, those golden flecks I'd seen earlier glowing. He held my arm tight, gaze fixed on mine, sweat dripping from his face.
"I know it, Liv."
"Okay." I loosened his iron grip on my arm.
"Sorry, sorry." He let go. "I know it."
"All right," I said. "What do you know?"
"The tusk. The writing. I know what it says. What it means."
"Okay. What?"
His mouth opened. Panic flooded his eyes. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no. I know. I know."
"Ricky . . ." I shifted to kneel beside him. "You were having a bad dream."
He shook his head, sweat-soaked hair lashing as I gripped his shoulder. "No. I remembered. It's important. It's so important."
I leaned in. "You're still half asleep. It's okay. It was just--"
"No! You need to know."
He pushed me away. It wasn't a hard shove, but it caught me off guard and I fell back.
"Fuck!" His eyes rounded as he grabbed my arms, steadying me. "Sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"I'm fine." I reached out, ran my hand through his wet hair, and leaned over to brush my lips across his cheek. "You're having a bad dream."
He nodded and took deep, shuddering breaths. His arms went around me, pulling me against him, and I fell into them. He held me tight, still shaking, as I rubbed his back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Fuck. I'm so sorry."
"Stop." I nuzzled his neck, kissing him. "It was a nightmare."
His head shook against my shoulder. "Not a nightmare. Well, yes, kind of. But more like a dream. I knew what the writing on the tusk meant, and I had to tell you. It was so important to tell you, and . . ." He took deep breaths. "And it was just a dream."
"Uh-huh."
"Fuck." He pulled back, looking abashed. "It seemed so real. I had to tell you, but part of me didn't want to, like I'd lose you if I told you, but you needed to know, and . . ."
Sharp breaths now, and I could feel him shivering as the dream passed and the sweat dried, leaving him cold and confused. I pushed him back on the bed and crawled in beside him, tugging the covers over us.
"Stay with me," he said.
"It was only a dream," I whispered as I curled up against him.
"I know. Just . . . stay with me."
"I will."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Despite the events of the night before, I had little trouble waking up at the crack of dawn. I'll credit Ricky with that. His methods of waking me were much nicer than any alarm clock. The fact that he felt guilty over disturbing my sleep last night only made him that much more determined to ease my waking.
There wasn't much to pack--you can't fit a lot in saddlebags. Then homeward bound. Ricky dropped me at my apartment and zoomed off to make his morning class.
I showered and changed and fed TC, who was peeved and ignoring me. Then I took off to the city.
"Good morning," I said, handing Lydia a tea as I walk
ed in. I heard voices in the meeting room and lowered mine. "Still in his appointment?"
"No, he had to cancel it. A more urgent one came up. You didn't get his message, I take it?"
Shit. I'd checked for messages over breakfast, when I had cell service, but only had e-mail, which I'd ignored. Ricky'd had a call from his dad. Some problem with a member of the gang. Nothing urgent, just asking him to phone later. Now that I could catch the voices from the meeting room, I knew who was in there with Gabriel.
"Olivia?"
Gabriel opened the meeting room door. Don Gallagher stood behind him. Another man sat across the room.
Gabriel walked out. "You didn't get my message?"
"No, sorry. I didn't check e-mail this morning."
I felt Don's gaze on me. Thinking that his son had also been out of touch last night? Shit.
"I could use you in here." Gabriel glanced at Don. "Is that all right? Olivia's getting a crash course in law, and this seems a good case for her. She's signed a confidentiality waiver, of course."
Should I be involved in a case regarding Ricky's gang? I hesitated. Don noticed. Shit.
As Gabriel asked Lydia to bring coffee for the clients, I quickly texted Ricky.
At office. Your dad's here.
The answer came back in seconds. Yeah, I know. Didn't want to warn you. Better if you were honestly surprised.
Except I missed Gabriel's message. So your dad knows I was out of contact last night. Like you.
Fuck. I'll fix this tonight. Sorry.
I signed off as we settled into the room. I thought no one had noticed me texting, but I looked up to see Don watching me.
"How are you doing, Olivia?" Don asked.
"Fine. Apologies for the disruption. I'm not used to having a job where I need to check e-mail."
He nodded. It was a pleasant nod, just as the inquiry had been pleasant. Civil and warm. No hint of suspicion, but I felt like a mouse squirming under a tiger's gaze. I suspect a lot of people feel like that around Don Gallagher. There's no mistaking he's Ricky's father--same blond hair, same dark eyes, same chiseled features, softer in Don. Those looks were the only softer part about him, though. Ricky could find his edge when it suited him; with Don, that edge never went away. It didn't matter if Don looked as if he belonged at the country club, with his clean-shaven good looks, golf shirt, and pressed trousers. You saw the set of his jaw and the glint in his eye and the biceps straining the sleeves of that shirt and you knew this was a guy you did not want to piss off. Shit.
Gabriel brought me up to speed. The other guy in the room was Chad Sullivan, who naturally went by Sully. He was a big bruiser with a ponytail, beard, and tats. A stereotypical biker, which was actually the minority in the Saints.
The case was a personal matter. Except in a gang it seems that nothing is ever truly personal.
Sully's ex was after him for unpaid child support. Don was pissed about it. I could see it in his face, hear it in his tone. You have kids; you pay for them. No exceptions. When Don learned of Sully's debts, he'd paid them, with Sully owing him the money. Which would have been fine, except it came too late, Don having only found out about the problem last night, when Sully got arrested for assaulting his ex.
Whether Sully had assaulted his ex or not was a matter of debate. He swore he hadn't. Don was still pissed. Sully had let the child support slide to the point where it seemed she retaliated, and in doing so, he'd violated club rules, which said all legal matters had to be brought to Don's attention immediately.
Don and Sully left just before noon. Gabriel took a call before we could speak. When he came out of his office, I could tell something had happened. He waved me inside.
"The police put a rush on the DNA," he said. "The press is breathing down their necks. When a young woman turns up dead and mutilated, the assumption is 'serial killer,' even if that's rarely the case."
"Is there a problem with the DNA?" I asked.
"It's not a match for her mother."
"What?"
Gabriel motioned for me to sit. "They tested against the mother. That saves any unexpected family surprises."
"In case Dad's not the father. You can't lie about maternity, though."
"Yes. But it seems Ciara Conway isn't biologically related to her mother."
"Could it be . . . ?" I shook my head. "Okay, I was going to suggest she was adopted and the family was hiding it, like with me, but obviously not if they asked for the DNA." Even as I said it, my heart thudded. I guess I wasn't completely over that shock yet.
"Olivia?"
"I'm fine. Sorry." I forced a smile. "Back to the subject at hand . . ."
"There's no hurry. Take a--" He cleared his throat. "I meant that if you want to . . ." He seemed to search for words.
"Take a minute?"
I'd given him crap a few weeks ago for that particular turn of phrase, one used when a client was upset. He meant it to sound sympathetic, but I always picked up that note of impatience bordering on contempt. Really, this is an inconvenient time for all this emotional nonsense. If you must, get it over with quickly, please.
This time I suspect he really was showing empathy. But it was like watching a teenage boy hold a baby, making a genuine effort while clearly as uncomfortable as hell.
"I'm fine," I said. "So the dead body isn't Mrs. Conway's biological daughter. Does that mean the corpse isn't Ciara? Or has there been a lab mix-up?"
Gabriel visibly exhaled, much happier to get back on the relatively safe ground of discussing dead people. "In reality, such mistakes are exceedingly rare. I also don't see how the body could have been someone other than Ciara Conway. While death photos are difficult to ID--given the difference in pallor and muscle tone--there seemed no doubt this was Ms. Conway."
"But if she isn't the child of her parents, what does that mean? Switched at birth? Does that even happen outside of soap operas?"
"That is what you're going to find out. I suspect the likelihood isn't any greater than that of a lab error or misidentification, which means we'll be looking at three equally dubious possibilities." He tapped his pen, frowning, his gaze distant.
"Whatever the answer, I think someone knew," I said.
"Hmmm?"
"Someone advised them to get that DNA test, when it seemed a complete waste of time and money. But it wasn't. We need to find out who advised them. I bet he--or she--knows what's going on here."
Gabriel nodded. "I'll try to make an appointment to speak to the Conways tomorrow. Are you free?"
"Until three again."
"Good. I'll set it up."
--
Switched at birth. There's actually a Wikipedia page for that, which was damned handy, but also a little disconcerting.
After my diner shift, I'd set about doing the research. As I expected, though, the idea was primarily used as a plot device. In fact, that's what most of the entry covered--all the ways it had been used in fiction and film. The list of actual documented cases was short. Of course, one could argue that only the cases that are discovered are documented, but it would still be exceedingly rare. Modern hospitals have measures in place--like wristbands--to prevent mix-ups.
As I zipped down the Wiki entry to the sources, a line caught my eye, under "see also" links to related entries. A link for changelings. When I read that, I heard Rose's voice.
You have no idea what a fairy circle is, do you? Which is shocking for a changeling child.
Changeling. A fairy child left in the place of a human one, to be raised by the unknowing parents. It applied to me metaphorically--my adoptive parents having raised me not knowing my true heritage.
I looked at the photo of Ciara. Another thing we had in common? A chill skittered over my skin.
I ran a Facebook search on Ciara Conway's family. Her mother and brother had pages. I clicked her mother's link for photos and skimmed until I found a family shot of all four Conways, taken a year ago. I enlarged the photo and stared at the screen.
 
; Ciara Conway was not her parents' child.
Everyone knows genetics does wonky things. A family of blue-eyed blonds can have a green-eyed, red-headed throwback to some previous generation. But the resemblance will still be there, in deeper ways--the shape of the face, the eyes, the cheekbones. That's what was missing between me and my adoptive parents.
It was also missing between Ciara and the Conways.
Yes, there were similarities in the coloring. She was dark-haired. So was her father. But Ciara's hair was as dark as Gabriel's. Her coloring superficially resembled his and Rose's. Black Irish: black hair, pale skin, blue eyes. While she didn't closely resemble either of them, she could have passed for a Walsh better than for a member of her actual family.
No. I was jumping to conclusions. That damned Wiki entry had seized my imagination and made off with it.
I would show Gabriel the pictures, and he'd point out facial similarities, along with the general impossibility of my theory. The DNA confusion must be a lab error or misidentification of the body. Both were more likely than "switched at birth."
I was forwarding my conclusions to Gabriel when I got an e-mail from him. It was his usual terse missive, more like an elongated text message.
Heard from police contact. Conways advised by anonymous call. So-called psychic. Male. No name. Said Ciara alive. Urged to have DNA tested. Call traced to pay phone. Can still meet with Conways but see little point. Will talk tomorrow.
Anonymous call? From a supposed psychic? I wasn't even sure where to go with that. I finished my e-mail to Gabriel, hit Send, shut down my computer, and went to bed.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
I was still drifting off to sleep when my cell phone rang. Ricky's number illuminated on the screen.
"Hey," I said as I answered.
There was a pause. One so long I repeated the greeting before Ricky said, "Hey. Are you . . . ? You've gone to bed, right?"
"Yes, but I'm not asleep yet." I pulled myself upright, smile vanishing as I heard his tone, cautious and strained. "It didn't go well with your dad?"
"I just . . . I need to see you. Can I come by?"
"Of course. Where are you?"
Another long pause. "Outside."
"You're here?"
"Yeah. I came straight here, hoping you were still awake, but then I saw your light was off and got your good night text and . . ."
"Come on up."
--
I was barely at the door before Ricky rapped, just once, almost hesitant, as if I might have fallen asleep. When I opened it and saw him, I thought, It's over. Don's told him to break it off. The club comes first.