"I have never expected--"
"Then step away from the window. Because if it doesn't go well with Ricky tonight, she'll find someone else. Someone you'll like and respect a whole lot less than him. Someone who will be a hell of a lot less understanding about how much time she spends with you. Olivia appreciates men. Unlike some people, she's not going to be content to bury herself in her work."
"I'm well aware of that, too."
"Then, as I said, the only reason you should be at that window is if you plan to offer up yourself as a replacement."
"Olivia is an employee and a friend. My feelings for her don't extend beyond that."
"Save the bullshit for a jury, Gabriel. Your feelings extend well beyond that. You just won't do a damn thing about them, because you're terrified of trying."
"Terrified?" He gave a short laugh. "While your choice of words is highly dramatic--"
"--my sentiment is dead-on?"
"Hardly. I have no interest--"
"You have every interest, and it's driving you crazy. Would it change anything if you knew she'd reciprocate?"
"No."
"So it's not fear of rejection. It's fear that it won't work. That you'll drive her off. That in trying for more, you'll lose her completely."
I always do.
He rubbed his temples again.
"Gabriel . . . ?" Concern in her voice now as she stepped forward.
He moved away from her. "As entertaining as it might be to try extending your powers to mind reading, I find the need to continually defend myself against groundless accusations irritating."
She kept her voice low. "I only want you to be happy."
"Then allow me to continue this vigil in peace, because what I'm doing, had you asked, is waiting until they finish their conversation so I can return to the task of making sure I don't go to jail for murder. That would make me happy."
"No, that would just be a relief. What makes you happy is her."
She walked away before he could reply. He turned back to the window.
She was right, of course. Not about all of it. Any sexual attraction was an unavoidable matter of biology. He was spending his days in the company of an attractive young woman and it had . . . been a while.
Sex was a problem for someone uncomfortable with physical intimacy. When he'd been a teenager or a college student, the drive overrode the revulsion. As he got older, the edge wore off that drive, and the anonymity he needed became much harder to come by when he made a conscious effort to get as much public exposure as possible. Women might pretend to have no idea who he was, but afterward he'd often get a "Remember me?" call at the office. The last one had actually shown up there. That had been almost a year ago. Which explained the "issues" with Olivia. He could solve them by breaking his dry spell but he recoiled at the thought. And he had a feeling it wouldn't be more than a very temporary solution. Because, if he was being honest, there was more to his attraction than biology. That didn't matter, though. Having such a relationship with Olivia introduced far too many uncontrollable variables into the equation.
She won't stay. She never does.
The other night, when he'd insisted Ricky join Olivia in her room upstairs, it had been, admittedly, an effort to prove their relationship didn't bother him. Of course, as soon as Ricky had climbed the stairs, and Gabriel realized how quiet the house was, and that he'd hear them if they engaged in anything, he'd felt very differently about the situation. Sure enough, the sounds from their room did drive him out of the house. But they weren't "that" sort of sound at all, simply them whispering and laughing, their voices too low for him even to make out what they were saying. That was enough, those whispers and laughs pounding through his skull like red-hot spikes.
That was exactly what he wanted from Olivia. That casual intimacy. That connection. They would go to dinner, and they'd relax and talk, share a bottle of wine, and it wouldn't matter if they were surrounded by people--it felt like just the two of them, wrapped up in the meal and the conversation. Or they'd be someplace together, talk turning light, teasing, and he'd see that glow in her eyes, feel the warmth of it. Then circumstances would intervene and the mood would evaporate, and he'd have no idea how to get it back again.
Ricky did. Effortlessly. In the midst of the worst situation, Ricky could engage Olivia as easily as flicking a switch. Change her mood. Make her smile. Win a laugh. He made it seem so easy.
It was not easy. Not at all.
But she'd spent the night in the police station for Gabriel. The officers occasionally came by his holding cell to tell him his "girlfriend" was still hanging around. He told them Olivia wasn't his girlfriend. Finally, one had said, "Well, then someone should tell her that, because she sure as hell acts like it." To have someone do that for him . . . it was confounding and almost unfathomable. He kept trying to tell himself that she had to have a reason beyond not wanting to abandon him. But she hadn't. She'd stuck by his side simply to say she was standing by him.
Gabriel checked his phone in case Olivia had texted, perhaps to say things were going poorly and she needed his help, his advice. He had messages. None from her. As he put his phone back, he noticed Ricky crossing the street, moving fast. Walking away from Olivia's building. Away from Olivia.
Ricky pulled on his helmet, climbed on his bike, and drove off without a backward glance.
Gabriel got as far as the front door before Rose made a noise behind him.
"I'm just going over--" he began.
"I heard the motorcycle."
"Yes, Ricky has left, which means Olivia is free. We have work to do."
Rose shook her head, looking very tired. "If there is anything worse than racing over because you're hoping she's been dumped, it's racing over to tell her to get back to work right after she got dumped. How about this: you're going over there to support her because she'll be upset, and she should have someone to talk to about it?"
Gabriel paused. Then he said, "Exactly."
Rose shook her head again. "Go on."
--
Gabriel tried to check his pace as he crossed the road. When he reached the apartment building, Grace called from the stoop, "Barely even waited until he got around the corner, did you?"
Gabriel ignored her. When he reached for the door, she said, "Presuming you want the girl, you're going the wrong way."
Gabriel followed her finger to see Olivia heading up Rowan. He calculated time and distance, trying to determine whether she might have left first--walking out after a fight. No, Ricky had, leaving Olivia upset, wanting to walk it off and . . .
And she was heading in the direction of the Carew house.
Gabriel took off at a slow lope, with Grace calling, "You're welcome!" behind him.
Ricky must not have believed what Olivia had told him about the omens and visions, and that had set her own doubts swirling again. She was wondering if she was imagining things. Heading to the Carew house for proof that she wasn't.
Olivia didn't need this. Ricky hadn't been there, not for any of it. He had no right to judge, goddamn him.
At the corner, Olivia stopped. Her head swiveled in the direction of the Carew house. Then she turned around and started heading back. It took a few steps for her to notice him. When she did, he tried to read her expression, but the sun was just beginning to drop, and long oak-tree shadows hid her face.
As she came close, he saw a tired, almost wry smile on her lips.
"Hey," she said. Before he could speak, she lifted a hand to stop him. "Yes, I was going to the house. Now I'm not."
"What happened?"
"I realized it was a very stupid idea."
He fell in step beside her. "Telling Ricky?"
"Hmm?" She looked over. "Oh, right. No. That's fine."
"You're all right with him taking off?"
Another vague look, as if her mind was elsewhere.
"I saw him leave," Gabriel said. "Clearly, he didn't take the news well and--"
"Oh, that
. No. He's fine. He just went to grab dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Pizza, I think. Can't find that in Cainsville. I'm sure he'll bring plenty, so you're welcome to join us if you want some."
There were many things Gabriel wanted. Pizza was not one of them.
He cleared his throat. "So you told him everything and . . ."
"Not everything. Just about the omens and Cainsville. The omens part was fine. He's struggling a little more with the fae. As one would. I think he offered to go get pizza to take time to process everything. But he's not questioning it. He's more like you that way. I may have grown up with those superstitions in my head, but that was my only exposure to anything preternatural. You have Rose and her second sight. Ricky grew up with the stories, including the Wild Hunt."
"What?"
Olivia slowed as they neared her apartment. "When I was out at his cabin, we went . . . for a walk at night. We heard the Hunt. The Cwn Annwn. He joked about it being the Wild Hunt--he knew the stories from his grandmother. Of course, he rationalized it away--just nighttime hunters--but I think he said that for my benefit, that deep down he suspected what it really was."
Of course he did.
He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the voice to be quiet.
"Gabriel?" Olivia said.
"A slight headache," he said.
"I'm not surprised, given the last forty-eight hours. If you want to rest, I promise I won't go to the Carew house. I might go for a run, though. Or we could walk, if you need fresh air more than a rest." She grinned at him. "I know better than to suggest you join me in a run."
"I would, but my sweats are at home."
Her grin grew, as if she thought he was joking. Then she saw that he wasn't.
"You run?"
He shrugged. "Not much lately."
"And you never mentioned it?" A short pause, then a wry smile. "You were afraid I might ask to join you, right?"
He didn't know how to answer that. He would happily run with her. He just never wanted to presume. There was, too, always the possibility that he overthought these things. It was foreign ground to him. He did recall a couple of tentative childhood friendships. There'd been a girl before he was old enough for school. She lived down the hall. That lasted until his mother took advantage of his access to their apartment to steal everything that wasn't nailed down. Then there'd been a boy in first grade. That ended when his mother slept with the boy's father.
Thus began the slow process of learning to avoid anything that could be taken as an overture to friendship. It hadn't bothered him, really. He wasn't sociable by nature, and to be honest, his "friendships" had been more "playing in the same room as an equally unsociable child." Learning what might constitute an overture had been profitable later in life, as a way to manipulate marks into thinking they'd earned his friendship. The result, though, was that he was, perhaps, a little hyperaware of his interactions with others. Even Olivia. No, especially Olivia.
"Don't worry," she said. "I'll never pester you to run with me."
"I--"
"I get it," she said, that wry smile touched with something like sadness.
And thus an opportunity evaporated again, as it often did, and he was left stuck between cursing himself for losing it and telling himself it was for the best.
"But the walk?" she said. "Are you up for that?"
He motioned for her to carry on past the apartment building. "We'll walk."
She smiled then, a real one. Someone else did, too--Grace, on her stoop, watching them with a smug look.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
As we walked, I kept glancing at Gabriel. The quieter he was--and the faster he walked--the more I suspected he really would rather be resting at Rose's.
"We can go back," I said.
"I'm fine."
We reached the park. It was empty, the swings twisting in the breeze. We both stopped near the fence, as if each was waiting to see if the other planned to go in or continue on. I broke the impasse by opening the gate and walking through.
We sat on the bench in silence. I wanted to explain why I'd been going to the Carew house. In talking to Ricky, I'd realized that I needed to get these damned visions over with. To see whatever I was supposed to see. Otherwise, we wouldn't know enough context to figure out what had happened to James.
The problem was that the visions came with a price, and if I mentioned my plan to Gabriel, he'd snap and snarl and insist that I really didn't need them, that I could just ask the elders or Patrick. I couldn't, because everyone had an agenda and they'd slant the story to their advantage. So I was stuck.
I need these answers. I can't help him without them.
The thought flitted through my mind . . . and then I was standing in a field. A perfect midsummer field, the grass long and sweet-smelling, tickling me in the breeze. A dragonfly landed on a stalk in front of me, its jeweled body glittering in the sun. I could hear the distant trill of a bird and the burble of a brook.
I knew what lay beyond that brook. The forest. Dark and shadowed, yet in its way as wonderful as the sunlit meadow--peaceful, shady, and cool. Two halves of the whole.
"Two halves of your whole," said a voice beside me.
The little girl reached for the dragonfly, laughing as it zipped away. This is where I'd first seen the bean nighe, down by that stream. I'd been the girl, walking through the meadow to the forest. When I lifted my hand now, though, it was clearly mine.
I turned quickly. "Gabriel . . ."
"He's fine. Would you rather try to talk him into returning to your house?"
"My house?"
The girl smiled. "Of course. It was built for you, long before you were born."
I shook off the illogic of that. "But Gabriel--"
"You want the rest of the story. You can't convince him to let you see it, and you wisely won't attempt to without him, so this is the best answer. A blameless way to get what you want."
"Except it's not blameless, is it? You're in my head. Meaning I called you up to get the rest of the story. Which is also in my head. Locked away."
She grinned like a teacher with a slow pupil who has finally learned to read. "Clever girl. Yes, you have the memories. We all do. Now, do you want to finish Matilda's story?"
Guilt flickered, but my answer came quickly. "Yes."
"Good. You've seen how it ends, in fire and death. Now see how it begins."
--
She pointed to a rise about twenty feet away. A boy shouted beyond it. Then a girl laughed. I crested the rise and saw them below. A girl with long, light brown hair sailing behind her as she ran from a blond boy. They were both no more than eight or nine. They tore through the meadow, the girl laughing as the boy tried to catch her. Then a blur shot from the forest. Another boy, dark-haired, riding a black horse. He raced up alongside the girl, leaned over so far I thought he'd fall, grabbed her arm, and swung her onto the horse. Then he tore off, laughing as the blond boy stopped and stared after them.
The girl clung to the horse, her hair whipping behind her, eyes narrowed in rapture as the horse galloped ever faster. They leapt over the stream, and the girl shrieked with delight. In the meadow, the sun itself seemed to dim as the fair-haired boy stood abandoned. Then they shot from the forest and tore back. The dark-haired rider launched from his horse and tackled the blond boy. The girl swung off, too, and moments later they were all walking through the forest, running, laughing, and playing.
"Matilda, Gwynn, and Arawn," I said.
"This is how it begins. With two boys and a girl, back before Romans set their filthy boots on our shores. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn are the two sides of fae--light and dark. Light is not good nor dark evil."
"Just two sides of the same coin. Or stone."
She smiled. "Yes. Light and dark. Day and night. Meadow and forest. The living and the dead. The ties between the two were strong, and the ruling families were close. So, too, then, were the children of those kings. Gwynn and Arawn grew u
p together, along with a girl from the most respected family of dyn hysbys and dynes hysbys. Cunning men and women."
"Which means witches and seers. That's what Matilda was."
"She was also Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Half of each. Both sides claimed her. She grew up with Gwynn and Arawn, separately in their lands, and together as three friends. Which is fine for children, but when a woman comes of age, things change . . ."
I heard a shout, but it was deeper, Matilda's answering laugh more musical. Three horses shot from the forest, a coal-black stallion and a dappled mare leaping over the stream, their riders Arawn and Matilda, no longer children but perhaps seventeen, eighteen. They raced into the field.
Gwynn crossed the stream behind them on a white stallion. Then he climbed off and walked back to crouch and peer into the water. Matilda circled around. She swung off and went to kneel beside him. He pointed out something in the stream, and they talked, serious and intense, until he reached into the water, took out something, and laid it in her palm. Her hand closed over it, and when she looked at him, it was not the look a child gives a friend.
It's you. It's always been you.
Arawn rode back. Before he reached them, they climbed onto their horses, and the three took off across the meadow.
"And so there was a dilemma," the little girl said. "One girl, two boys. The young men knew that if they vied for her hand, their friendship might not survive, and the ties between their kingdoms could weaken, as the boys turned to men and warriors, on the path to inheriting their respective crowns. So they made a pact that they would remain friends--all three of them. Neither would court Matilda. What the men forgot was that there was a third party in this arrangement, one they did not tell of it."
I heard the shout again, and the laugh, and once more it was Gwynn and Matilda, in the meadow. They were older now, early twenties. Matilda had a basket, Gwynn a blanket. He laid it down and she set out a meal: cheese and bread and wine. She was leaning to pour his wine when he moved forward to take a piece of cheese, and they nearly collided. Matilda leaned forward, her face a few inches from his. Then she darted in and kissed him on the mouth before pulling back quickly, blushing. He froze there, touching his lips. Then, after a long, careful look around, he pulled her to him and kissed her again.