Unthinkable

  The cat’s almond-shaped eyes shone in the dimness like a beacon from a strange land. She squatted down in the dirt to glare directly into them. “Also, do you think I don’t know what a woman is and isn’t supposed to say to any male about his lovemaking? Do you think I don’t know what a male creature wants to hear? Do you think I wasn’t well trained? When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it! Otherwise, nobody tells me what to say or what to do! Not you, not anyone! Never again! Do you hear me? Never!”

  The cat’s ears flattened. Fenella, he said quietly, it’s all right. Calm down. Please. I’m here to help you, remember?

  Fenella pressed the heel of one hand to each eye in turn. Eventually she was able to straighten.

  Walker was staring at her. Even in the dark, she could feel the intensity of it.

  “I’m sorry about that outburst,” Fenella said. “Chalk it up to my craziness. I talk to cats! My own cat, anyway. You know why? It’s because he talks to me first. I hear him in my insane little head. He was lecturing me now. About men.”

  Walker said carefully, “And what did your cat say about men?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  Fenella repeated it.

  Walker took it in. “Now tell me again what you said to your cat?”

  “You heard me the first time. That I wasn’t mocking you.” “But you also said—”

  “Forget what else I said.”

  “But it was—there was something about being ‘well trained’? What did that mean?”

  “Oh, who knows what insane things I might say?”

  Walker shoved his hands down into his pockets. “I want to take back what I said before. You were right. It was real. And I wanted it too. Wanted you. I was just trying to say that it was—” He squared his shoulders. “. . . a m ist a ke.”

  Fenella stood up again, like a soldier. She lifted her chin.

  “For me,” she said, “it wasn’t.” For there was no longer any point in such trifles as the preservation of pride or the pretense of indifference.

  Walker paused, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then don’t say anything at all.”

  Silence.

  Then Walker said grimly, “Not possible. You told me you’d go with me to tell your family the truth. I’m going to insist on it.”

  Don’t go. Run away! I’ll help you run! I’ll hide you in Faerie! The cat sounded panicked.

  “All right,” said Fenella calmly to Walker.

  No! Don’t you see how that would be fatal?

  Fenella looked down into the cat’s upturned face. “No. I think—this feels like the right thing to do.”

  But the third task—

  “If you don’t shut up, I will put you in a sack and do my level best to drown you. That’s a promise.”

  Ryland shut up.

  Fenella sighed. She knelt by the cat. “All right. Sorry. I know you mean to help me. But you also know this is my decision, not yours.” She held out her arms. Haughtily, the cat leaped into them. She straightened and turned to Walker.

  “Take me to my family. I’ll tell them you lied to protect me.”

  Walker nodded. “Then the police.” His face was implacable.

  “I’ll tell the truth to anyone I need to.”

  They ducked beneath the trees and emerged next to the parking lot.

  Refusing to turn and look back at the little shelter of trees—even though she wanted to—Fenella followed Walker to his truck, which once had delighted her so much. She did not glance at the front of it, lest there be damage. He courteously opened the passenger door for her; he even held Ryland while she climbed in, and then handed her the cat.

  He avoided even brushing her fingers with his own.

  Chapter 42

  Silence ruled during the dark drive; a silence choked with things left unsaid, with one exception.

  “Your cat who talks in your head. Can you tell me more about him?”

  “Certainly,” said Fenella politely. “What would you like to know?”

  “Whatever. Anything.”

  “He’s not actually a cat, but a faerie prince.”

  “A faerie prince.”

  “Yes. He’s under a temporary spell while on assignment from the Faerie Queen, his sister. He’s advising me on the completion of three tasks.”

  “A handsome faerie prince under a spell.”

  “Not handsome. He’s what you’d call a freak.”

  The cat yowled. Walker’s hand jerked on the wheel of the truck.

  Fenella said, “Ryland wishes you to know that his natural form is that of a manticore.”

  “A manticore.”

  “Yes. Human head, body of a lion, dragon’s tail. Wings.”

  Walker flicked a glance toward Fenella’s lap, where Ryland sat sphinx-like, front paws extended, head upright. “Of course. A manticore.” He returned his attention to his driving.

  Walker hadn’t even seemed to take in what she’d said about the three tasks. He had certainly not asked what they were or about Fenella’s involvement with them. She found herself compulsively shaping conversational gambits in her head. There were so many things she might say. So much pity she might fish for. So many explanations she might make. And, oh yes, so much begging she might do.

  Was there any chance Walker would by some miracle believe her? He had experienced the tangible magic of the oak leaf, which—oh. She groped in her pocket. She remembered holding the leaf on the park bench, and then she had scrambled on top of Walker, and she had no memory of it after that. She sighed heavily, but Walker did not even look her way.

  She knew then it was useless.

  Fenella closed her eyes, only to see Padraig form instantly in her mind’s eye. He was dressed in silk and leather, as of old, and his body was restored to full strength and power. He swept down low in a mocking bow. Rising, he held out a commanding hand. Despite her will, her feet took her to him and she accepted his hand. His long, overly jointed fingers dug into her as he drew her body against his. His honeyed voice poured a long, detailed story into her ear, a favorite of his, about some things he had done to Bronagh.

  Then he told her that he was going to do those things to Lucy.

  Stop that shaking, Fenella, said the cat, though he sounded panicked himself. Once Walker tells your family the truth— once you do—you won’t be allowed near them. And then he wants to get the police! They’ll lock you up. They’ll discover you have no identification—that you don’t legally exist. So you must do the third task now. Tonight. Or never!

  He paused. Or you could still buy yourself time. Run and hide. Run the moment the car stops. I’ll be right behind you. Because, don’t you see, Fenella? Once they know, it’s all over.

  Fenella’s stomach did a strange little flip.

  Once they know, it’s all over.

  Just like that, she knew what to do. She knew why she had gotten into the truck and why she was going to tell the truth. She knew her plan. She sat up straight.

  “Ryland, I have decided about the third task.” Fenella stole a glance at Walker’s profile, but only the twitch of the muscle in his cheek acknowledged that he heard her speak to her cat.

  The cat stood on his hind legs, his whiskers brushing her cheeks. What?

  “I can’t tell you aloud.” Fenella’s eyes remained on Walker. “You will have to do what I say. Instantly.”

  I have to obey you anyway.

  “I know.”

  I hope your idea is a good one. Strange. Ryland sounded like he cared.

  Walker said nothing. Of course not. Her talk of faeries and tasks would only have confirmed what he had decided before. She was a crazy, dangerous girl who talked to her cat, a girl soon to be locked up for her terrible deeds. Nonetheless, as they drove, she kept her gaze on him. This was the last time she would be alone with him.

  Too soon, they pulled up in front of an unfamiliar building, a three-story house
. “The new apartment,” Walker said tersely.

  Fenella hesitated, her hand on the truck’s door handle. “After I hit Leo, they went ahead with the move?”

  “The family went to the hospital. Everyone else moved things for them. Then Lucy’s friend Sarah and some others set things up here.”

  “I s ee.”

  “Do you? Do you see how thoroughly you’ve wrecked their lives?”

  Fenella stared at the house. She reminded herself that Walker lived on the ground floor. The ScarboroughGreenfield-Markowitzes’ apartment was on the next two floors. Electric lights burned from there.

  Walker came around to Fenella’s side of the truck and opened her door, as if he thought she’d been waiting for that. He did not offer to hold Ryland for her this time, and so she simply dumped the cat on the ground, where he stretched, arching his back. She slid out of the truck.

  Who was home? Lucy? Zach? Soledad? Miranda? Someone would be there with the child, who required regular hours and food and sleep.

  “Are you sure this is the right time? Won’t hearing from me make things worse? What about waiting until morning?”

  “There will never be a right time.”

  “But what if they were to hear that Leo will live after all?”

  “What you’re really saying is that it would go easier on you, when you confess, if he’s alive and doing better.”

  No. Really she was saying that she didn’t want to do the third task.

  Walker took her elbow in a firm grip. “Let’s go.”

  Ryland padded lightly along beside Fenella as they moved up the walk to the front door. Inside, a steep staircase turned sharply upward. They climbed, and Walker rapped on a wooden five-panel door.

  Lucy called out in response. “Come in.”

  Chapter 43

  “It’s Walker. Sorry to bother you. I have Fenella with me.”

  Fenella and Walker entered the living room, which was lit only by a bare electric bulb in the center of the ceiling. The room was of reasonable size and its wideplanked wooden floor felt solid underfoot. But it was hard to imagine it ever feeling anything like the home that was gone. Cardboard boxes were piled high against stark white walls. A broom and dustpan leaned against the wall, next to a window open to the autumn night air. In the far corner stood a portable playpen, with a few totally unfamiliar stuffed toys lined up within. A big shabby sofa was half-covered by a pile of clothing. Two interior doors gaped open to other rooms.

  The whole place smelled overpoweringly of fresh paint.

  Lucy had risen from the sofa. Her eyes were blank disks. Dawn hung, a dead weight, over her mother’s shoulder. The child’s eyes were closed. She had two fingers stuffed in her mouth and wore faded white pajamas covered with pictures of frolicking kittens.

  “Are you here alone?” Walker asked Lucy.

  “Yes.”

  Ryland, who had followed, jumped lightly up on the

  sofa behind Lucy, who cast him a quick, unwelcoming look. Ignoring her, Ryland made himself a nest on top of the clothing. “We need to talk,” Walker said.

  Lucy nodded. She looked only at Walker, though, not Fenella. But Fenella could feel the force of Lucy’s awareness of her. “I’ve only just got Dawn off to sleep. I’ll put her down first.” Lucy moved into the next room as if wading through hip-deep water.

  Fenella felt Walker’s bulk heavy behind her, like a jailer. “I’ll tell Lucy,” she told him. “I said I would and I will.”

  “Tell me what?” It was Lucy, back in the doorway already, her body tense, her hands fisted before her.

  Fenella stepped forward.

  Her plan for the third task would work, or it would not. They would all be saved, or they would all be destroyed. It began with telling the truth.

  “I was driving the truck today, not Walker. I hit Leo. Also, I burned down the house. But you knew that already, I think.”

  It was like taking a knife to a knotted mess of string. Fenella only had a moment to exhale in the relief of honesty, and the pain of it.

  In the next second Lucy knocked Fenella to the floor and was on top of her, screaming in her face. “Why? Why?” Lucy’s hands gripped her shoulders, shaking her. There came a slap and a punch and a knee digging into Fenella’s stomach, and then Fenella’s head was shaken so hard, she felt dizzy.

  Fenella didn’t struggle. She took her attention away from her body and whatever it felt. It didn’t matter. She looked up at the way the skin creased at the corners of Lucy’s eyes and mouth. At the way her mouth trembled.

  Lucy was crying. Tears ran down her face, her shoulders heaved as she tried again to shake Fenella. This time she failed. She was crying too hard.

  Fenella found Lucy’s wet cheek with her palm.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  “I’m sorry,” Fenella whispered. She truly meant to remove her hand. Instead, carefully, tenderly, she wiped Lucy’s tears away with her fingers. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry, baby. It’s going to be all right. I promise. I promise.”

  Lucy froze. She jerked her head back and stared at Fenella.

  Fenella was shocked too. The preposterous promise had come from some primal place. It was a mother’s promise, the kind made when all hope is lost but the mother refuses to believe it. And she had had no business saying it! It was against everything that she was trying to do.

  Lucy had to understand that no, everything was not going to be all right. She had to!

  As if he’d been far away and had now come closer, Fenella heard Walker. He sounded desperate, crazed, and uncertain. “Lucy—Fenella—stop—we all have to talk—”

  “Talk.” Lucy heaved herself to her feet. For a moment she stood above Fenella, panting. Her expression was confused. Then, slowly, suspicion and anger returned.

  Good, Fenella thought. Don’t trust me. Hate me. Fear me.

  Step by step, Lucy backed away until she was leaning against the wall. “I guessed about the fire. I suspected about Daddy.” Her voice threatened to crack on the childish word.

  Walker said, from somewhere to the left, “Fenella says hitting Leo was an accident.”

  “I don’t care,” Lucy said.

  Fenella shifted to a better position on the floor, so that she could see Lucy, Walker, and also the attentive twitch of Ryland’s ears from his perch on the sofa. She laced her hands in her lap. Her heart was racing, racing. It was ready.

  So was she.

  Lucy was still staring at Fenella. “Walker? Leave Fenella and me alone to talk.”

  “No. You and Dawn are safer with me here.”

  “You’re here to protect us?” Lucy sounded incredulous.

  “Yes. Fenella is not trustworthy.” He paused. “She’s, uh, ins ane.”

  Lucy smiled mirthlessly. “Fenella? Are you insane?”

  Always the same question.

  “I am no more insane than any Scarborough woman ever was.”

  Lucy inhaled sharply. “What’s wrong with me? I should have known. I did know—somewhere in me. I just didn’t want to believe it.” Then: “Walker, leave now. Now! This is family business.”

  “But Fenella’s crazy. Don’t believe her when she says she’s not! She thinks her cat talks to her. She says he’s a faerie prince under a spell.”

  Lucy’s head swiveled to Ryland. “The cat is a faerie prince?”

  Walker said, “Yes, her delusion is that he—”

  Lucy grabbed the broom. She leaped. The broom handle descended viciously.

  Ryland slithered to the floor barely in time. He dove under the sofa. She thinks I’m Padraig!

  Lucy dove to the floor too. She stabbed beneath the sofa with the broom handle. “I’ll kill him this time!”

  With one shoulder she heaved the sofa up on end. Exposed, the cat skittered across the bare floor toward Fenella. He raced round and round her legs.

  Fenella yelled, “Lucy, listen! This isn’t Padraig. He doesn’t even like Padraig.”

  It had come to this. Fenell
a was defending Ryland against Lucy.

  Blessedly, however, Lucy stopped. She swayed on her feet, staring at Ryland, but she didn’t move to pursue him further.

  “I hate all faeries,” she said at last.

  Walker fell against the wall with an audible thump.

  There was silence for a full minute. Then, cautiously, the cat stuck his head out from behind Fenella’s legs. Fenella? May I suggest proper introductions?

  “Lucy,” said Fenella evenly, “meet Ryland. He’s the brother of the Faerie Queen.”

  Ryland waved a front paw.

  Lucy narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m the only one who can hear what Ryland says,” Fenella said. “So I’ll have to translate.”

  “What does he want from us?” said Lucy.

  “Nothing. This is not about him, but—”

  “Lucy,” Walker interrupted. “Playing along with Fenella won’t help.”

  Lucy whirled on him. “Shut up and let me talk to Ryland and Fenella. This is family business. If you don’t believe it, you can leave.”

  Walker could go downstairs and make us all some tea, said Ryland brightly. I’ve been dying for a dish of Earl Grey. Cream, no sugar.

  The cat was right, and so was Lucy. It would be easier if Walker was out of the way.

  Fenella said, “Ryland thinks we should all have tea.”

  “The prince wants tea?” Lucy said incredulously.

  “Earl Grey, weak, with lots of cream if possible, and milk if not. No sugar.”

  In a nice wide dish. Not a teacup.

  “Served in a soup bowl,” said Fenella. “Big enough for his fat head.”

  There was a pause. Lucy looked at the cat. Then she looked at Fenella.

  “Walker?” said Lucy. “Do you have tea downstairs at your place? Because I think it would be soothing for all of us.”

  Walker was already backing away as his eyes shifted with astonishment from Lucy to Fenella and back again. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise—what was it?—Earl Grey.”

  “Anything is fine,” said Lucy. She moved with Walker to the door, as if he needed an escort.

  A moment later, Fenella knew why. Walker had not gone more than a few steps down the stairs when Lucy closed the apartment door. Then she snapped the deadbolt.