"I--"
"My sales pitch for my nephew ends there. Back to the point. While this is clearly no ordinary beast, others can see it. So it exists and seems supernatural in nature. But is it a fetch? Patrick's correct--that's the most common meaning of a large black dog. And yet . . ."
"What else is there?"
"You keep calling it a hound. But it doesn't resemble a typical American hound dog, and that term's not used in traditional folklore. It's called a Black Shuck in eastern England, barghest or gytrash in northern England, moddey dhoo in Manx, Church Grim throughout England . . . but never hound."
"Conan Doyle."
"Ah. Hound of the Baskervilles. Of course."
She nodded, but I sat there, thinking, until I finally said, "I thought of it as a hound before Patrick said Black Shuck. But I also thought of The Hound of the Baskervilles before he said Black Shuck. 'There stood a foul thing, a great, black beast, shaped like a hound, yet larger than any hound that ever mortal eye has rested upon.' So . . . I don't know. I guess I was thinking Baskervilles."
"Either way, I'm not convinced it's a fetch," Rose said. "I think you're correct that others can sometimes sense the supernatural. Seeing it affected Ricky Gallagher, and he wasn't sure why. I'll look into folklore on black dogs and hounds. In the meantime, I believe I heard Gabriel drive up. If you'll let him in, I'll make tea."
--
Rose brought tea and then left us alone. We talked about Pamela first. Gabriel had officially launched an appeal. Chandler still wouldn't speak to him. There were no leads in Anderson's murder, probably because the police didn't consider it a murder at all. For them it was simple: a man loses half his foot, is facing life in prison, and ODs on morphine.
Next up on the agenda? Ciara Conway. Gabriel couldn't do more than quietly investigate, much as I had been doing. If he wanted to ask the police about it in an official capacity, he needed an excuse . . . like having his office check into it on behalf of the elders of Cainsville.
"I could use your help obtaining theirs," he said. "The town elders aren't blind to my . . . unconventional business practices."
"They'll suspect you aren't offering out of the goodness of your heart."
"I can ask for compensation, but that reduces the chance they'll agree."
"I'll speak to them," I said. "But how do I explain my interest?"
"By working for me."
I stiffened.
"It's a way to gain work experience while helping your new town. I'm going to formalize your job offer. I know we'd planned to discuss that on your first shift. I'll get it in writing for you now. Hours, pay, and such. I need a day or two to put something together."
"I don't want--"
"I would like to make the offer, which you may then refuse." He stood. "Tell Rose I said goodbye. I'll see myself out."
I followed him out to the hall.
"Gabriel?" I said as he opened the front door.
He turned, a stray slip of moonlight illuminating a sliver of his face, blue eyes glowing almost preternaturally in the darkness. "Yes?"
I opened my mouth to say thank you, then stopped.
"Good night," I said finally.
A dip of his head, the moonlight evaporating, his expression lost in the darkness. "Good night, Olivia."
He backed out and pulled the door shut behind him.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
At lunch, I called Ricky to discuss where to meet tomorrow. It took my entire break. What can I say? He's a good conversationalist.
When my phone rang early that afternoon, I saw who was calling and . . . and I hesitated. Then I felt bad about hesitating and called James back.
"I'll make it quick," he said. "I had lunch with the deputy mayor, and he asked me to join his table at a fund-raiser tonight. It's a plus one, of course, which means I'm in the market for a guest and really hoping you'll say yes, because if my mother finds out I have tickets, you know who I'll have to take. I'd rather have you on my arm."
"So that's why I'm invited? Ornamental value?"
"Of course. Why else?"
I laughed.
"Come with me, Liv. It's not a public statement. I'll deflect any questions about our relationship. It'll be as painless as possible, and I'll take you for ice cream afterward."
"Scooter's?"
"Technically, that's frozen custard. But yes, Scooter's. So you'll come?"
"For the custard."
--
In the past month, I'd learned a lot about myself. I might even have matured, though I'm not sure I'd go that far. What I had not done, though, was develop any greater appreciation for charity dinners.
It was worse now, with everyone knowing who I really was. I got cold shoulders. I got sidelong looks. I got stares. I saw matrons in evening gowns whip out their phones, and they may have just been messaging a friend, but I suspect some were tweeting OMG, I can't believe who's here! complete with photos.
But I'd come for James, so I pushed all that aside, and I chatted and I smiled and I laughed. I flirted and I charmed. I even danced.
I was slow dancing with James as he was whispering in my ear. I listened to his voice and smiled at his sardonic commentary, and I felt the familiar warmth of him, inhaled the familiar smell of him, and I remembered why I'd wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man. I was happy.
The feel of his body against mine reminded me of something else I'd missed in the last month and made me wonder why the hell I hadn't dragged him to the nearest hotel last week. And then . . .
I sensed something. James led me off the floor afterward, but I didn't hear a word he said because I was busy listening and looking and inhaling, trying to find what had caught my attention.
I've always been particularly receptive to sensory input. Step into a busy room like this and my brain used to reel, looking for signs in every sight, sound, and smell. Now I know what's happening, and that initial blast fades quickly once my brain realizes no omens need to be interpreted.
Except now something did need interpretation, and I couldn't figure out what it was. It was only a prickle that said, "Pay attention."
"Liv?"
I snapped out of it and forced a smile. "Hmm?"
"I lost you for a moment there."
"Just . . ." I made a face. "The usual."
"All a little too much?" James said, because whatever had happened, he was still the guy who'd known me best.
"We can go outside," he said. "It's a nice night for a walk, and I won't argue with the chance to escape."
"That sounds--"
There. A smell. Wafting . . .
I inhaled. Nothing.
Damn it.
I forced my focus back to James. "I would love a walk. Just give me five minutes in the ladies' room."
He pecked my cheek and said he'd be over by the bar, talking to a city councilor who'd been trying to get his attention. Everyone wanted James's attention. And I had it, even now, as I walked away--feeling his gaze on me, looking back to see his smile, making me feel as it always had, that mix of surprise and wonder at my good luck.
As I walked toward the back hall, I cleared my mind and followed my gut. Sounds easy. Not for me. I prefer to lead with my brain--with mindfulness, intention, and purpose. Now I followed my gut down one corridor and then another until . . .
I caught the distant baying of hounds. I heard hounds, and I smelled horses, and I froze in my tracks as my gut and my brain and my heart screamed, "Get the hell out of here! Now!"
I stood there, fighting the urge to run, just run, before I saw . . .
Saw what?
Saw it. That's all I knew, that the hounds and horses meant it was coming and I had to flee as fast as my legs would take me or--
"Olivia?"
I looked up. A man stood at the hall junction. He was maybe sixty. Fit and trim and handsome in a way that had me taking a second look, even though he was more than twice my age. My gaze went to his face, and it stayed there, as if transfixed
.
I knew him. That's what it was. I recognized him. He was . . .
I had no idea who he was. Just a good-looking older guy in a tux, smiling at me and holding two champagne glasses. But he'd said my name, and something about his face was so familiar . . .
An associate or acquaintance of my dad? That was my guess. He had that look--an older man smiling at me fondly, as if I was the daughter of a friend.
"It's good to see you again," he said as I walked over. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd come."
Someone who knew James, then. I smiled. "James talked me into it. Did you enjoy the dinner? The cheesecake was amazing. I stole most of his."
A smile. Indulgent and a little patronizing, as if to say, Small talk? I thought you were better than that.
"I mean, I wasn't sure if you'd follow me." He lifted the champagne glasses. "But I came prepared."
I felt as if I was standing on a boat, the floor bobbing beneath me, the very walls shimmering, not quite solid. Yet my brain clung to logic.
"Have we met?" I asked. "I'm sorry if I don't recognize--"
"You wouldn't. You were very young. I knew your parents, and I'm so pleased to see how well you've grown. They must be very proud."
"My father passed last year, but my mother is well, thank you."
His eyes glittered as he shook his head. Then he held out the champagne. "Let's enjoy this while we speak. It's quite good."
I stared at the flute, amber liquid popping within.
Don't touch it. Don't drink it. Dear God, whatever you do, do not drink that.
I shook my head. "Thank you, but no. I--"
"Why not?"
I started at his rudeness. "I've had enough, and--"
"That's not it at all." His dark eyes bore into mine. "You sense something."
I opened my mouth with a quick denial, but the words wouldn't come.
He's not some family friend cornering you in a back hall. You know that. So stop pretending. Look at him. What do you see?
I see a man. I hear hounds. I smell horses. I feel--
I feel terror and wonder, and I want to run and I don't want to run. I want to stay here and I want to drink the champagne and I want to say . . .
I want to say what?
"Something is telling you not to take what I offer. Taste the foods. Sip the wine. Never leave. Follow me forever. Is that it, Olivia?"
"I don't know what--"
"You're raw and untrained. It's all there, but your young mind doesn't quite know what to make of it. It misfires. It misidentifies. Your lore is correct, yet you are not applying it where it ought to be applied." He lifted a glass. "It's safe to accept my food and my drink. Just don't ask me for salt." A soft laugh, as if sharing a private joke.
Again I opened my mouth to protest. But what good would that do? I knew this wasn't just a man.
Not a man? Not human? What the hell else could he be?
"I don't understand," I said finally.
He gave me a sympathetic look. "I know. But you're a smart girl, and you'll figure it out as soon as you admit there's something to be figured out. About me. About Cainsville."
"What about Cainsville?"
"What about it indeed. Just an ordinary little town. So very ordinary."
"If you have something to tell me--"
"That's more like it. But I can't. Not my place. I'm just"--he pursed his lips, as if choosing his words--"making contact. I have what you want, Olivia. I could get metaphysical and say that I have what your soul wants, what your heart and mind want, what you need to be happy and complete in your very uncommon life. And I do. But for now, I'll settle for saying that I have the answers you want. Particularly the ones you want most."
"Which are those?"
"You know, just as you know, deep down, that when I say I knew your parents, I'm not talking about Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor."
He reached into his pocket and tossed something to me. I caught it. A tooth. No, more like a tusk. A couple of inches long, carved with strange markings and capped with copper.
"A boar's tusk," he explained. "Or the tip of one. Keep it with you. For protection."
"From what? The hounds?" I said before I could stop myself.
He smiled that indulgent you-are-such-a-child smile. "You don't need protection from the hounds, Olivia. They mean you no harm. Nor do I. Others, however . . ." He stepped toward me and lowered his voice. "Beware and be wary, bychan."
Then he set the champagne flutes on the floor and started to walk away.
"Who are you?" I called after him.
He glanced back. "Who? Is that really your question?"
"What are you?"
I met his gaze, and I heard the hounds baying, and I heard horses snorting and hooves pounding, and I smelled sweat and musk and wet earth.
"Cwn Annwn," I said, whispering the unfamiliar words as if they'd been pulled from me. I expected him to frown, to ask, "What?" But he only chuckled, and then he walked away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the man left, I wandered back toward the party, dazed, as if I'd taken another blow to the head, the world fuzzy and off-kilter, the ground unsteady.
"Liv?"
I saw James hurrying toward me and snapped out of it.
"Hey," I said. "Sorry. Restroom break took a little longer than I thought."
He laughed. "It happens. I was starting--" He glanced at my hand. "What's that?"
I lifted the boar's tusk. "I found it on the floor. At first I thought it was a pendant, but . . ."
"It looks like a tusk."
I tried not to seem relieved. I hadn't dared identify it, half expecting James wouldn't see what I did.
"Weird, huh?" I said. "Definitely not a pendant. Maybe some kind of good luck charm." I put my arm through his and slid the tusk into my bag.
"I was starting to wonder if I'd missed a signal and was supposed to meet you here." He grinned my way. "I know you like back halls."
"I do."
His hand slid down to my rear. I tensed. I didn't mean to, but I was still off balance and struggling to find my way back. He pulled his hand away fast.
"Sorry," I said. "Just . . . distracted."
I tried to remember the dance, what it had felt like, my body against his. Then I pushed my mind back to the last charity event we'd attended, when we'd slipped into a back corridor and had sex against the wall, delicious sex. I felt the first licks of heat, but it wasn't enough. Yet I didn't want to say no, either. I could feel that slow ache. I just couldn't shake thoughts of the man I'd just met.
"Let's do something this weekend," I said. "I mean, if you're not busy--"
"I'm not." His arm tightened around me as he moved closer while we walked.
"I'm done working at three on Friday and I'm off Saturday. I can try to wrangle Sunday, too. We could go away. If you want."
He grinned. "I do."
"Good."
"And right now, I think it's late enough to say our goodbyes and spend some quality time eating frozen custard. If you still want."
I smiled. "I do."
--
It takes a special talent to enjoy frozen custard mere minutes after being confronted by an otherworldly being who hands you a boar's tusk. I have that talent. It's called acting. I'd been a dedicated member of every school troupe from elementary through college. I'm a natural, which may be what comes from growing up feeling as if I was playing a role in someone else's drama. For James's sake, I had to eat custard and smile and laugh, because that's what he expected and he hadn't done anything to deserve less. So I enjoyed our post-date treat and then zoomed home, punched in the code to my new security system, and took out my phone to . . .
To what?
Call Gabriel. That was the first thing I thought of. I had to call Gabriel and tell him . . .
It wasn't a question of "tell him what?" I could tell him about this. He'd listen. He'd believe. He'd strategize. The question was, Why him? I'd reflex-dialed Gabrie
l Saturday night, but that had at least been for professional advice--how to handle finding a part of a corpse in my bed. This was personal.
--
At work the next day, the Clarks came by midmorning, as they usually did, for tea and scones. I waited until my break. Then I spoke to them about Ciara Conway. I wanted to talk about her. I could move through my days, act like nothing was wrong, but I was keenly aware that a young woman was dead and her family didn't know it. If there was anything I could do to ease my conscience, I would do it.
"I feel like I should do something," I said after we talked. "I'm not exactly a detective, but Gabriel taught me how to do some basic legwork. Maybe I can prod the police into conducting a better investigation."
"You did very well with your mother's case," Ida said. "You may have found your calling: Olivia Jones, private eye." She looked at her husband. "We don't have one of those in Cainsville, do we?"
"I don't believe we do."
"And we sorely need one," Patrick said from across the diner, his gaze not rising from his laptop screen. "To chase down overdue parking tickets and find lost puppies. Speaking of which . . ." He glanced at me. "Did I hear that your cat has disappeared?"
I nodded. "I've hated to mention it, with Ms. Conway missing."
Ida frowned. "The black stray?"
"Yes. I was taking out trash that morning. He must have slipped out. But if you do spot him, I'd like to know he's okay."
"Of course."
Ida looked around at several of the other elders, dotting tables throughout the diner, as if knowing they'd be listening in. They all glanced over and said no, they hadn't seen TC, but they'd keep an eye out.
"I'll speak to Grace," Ida said. "She might know more than she's saying."
"Good luck with that," Patrick called over, still typing.
"Well," I said. "If I can't find my own cat, I suspect I'm not exactly ready to be a PI. Nor am I ready to investigate Ms. Conway's disappearance. But I'd like to try."
"With Gabriel's help, of course," Walter said.
"Er . . . yes, Gabriel has offered to provide--"
"You'll be working with him, won't you?" Ida pressed. "I haven't seen him around. I hope that doesn't mean anything. We were so happy to see you two together."
"We were never . . . together," I said. "It's a business partnership--"
"Yes, yes. I mean working together. You still are, aren't you?"
"Liv?" Patrick raised his mug. "Break's over, isn't it?"
While he was giving me a way out of this conversation, I could tell this was important to the elders. They might tease about me becoming a PI, but they knew I needed Gabriel for this.