"What?" I looked over at Gabriel.
"He jumped after you, Liv." A satisfied smile spread across Patrick's face. "Did you expect anything less?"
"How would you know that?" Gabriel said, rising.
"I know you," Patrick said.
"Wait," I said. "So you did jump--"
Footsteps sounded outside the door, a shadow stretching in. Then a voice said, "Ms. Jones has reached the maximum number of visitors, sir."
A man's murmur, too low for me to identify. Before Gabriel made it halfway to the door, the nurse said, "Briefly, please. She really does need her rest."
"Of course. I appreciate your understanding."
Now I recognized the voice. Patrick tilted his head as if he did, too, but couldn't quite place it.
The newcomer walked in carrying flowers and a perfectly wrapped basket of fruit and chocolate. Then he saw Patrick and stopped.
"Ioan," Patrick said, walking toward him. "How long has it been?"
"Not nearly long enough."
Patrick lowered his voice. "Everyone says that. You'll need to do better if you want to insult me." He took the flowers and basket. "Thank you so much. Liv will appreciate these. It's too bad you can't stay, but we have a lovely parting gift for you." He handed Ioan the book. "It's a ripper."
Ioan looked down. "Is this...your book?"
"One of them. It's signed to Liv, but you can scratch that out and write in your name. Oh, and if you can leave a five-star review on Goodreads, I'd appreciate it."
Ioan set the book down. "I'm here to talk to Olivia. Alone, please." His gaze flicked to Gabriel. "If you would take your epil--"
I coughed. Patrick said, "No, my book stays. Epilogue and all. So do I."
Behind Gabriel's back, I shook my head for Ioan. Epil is Welsh for offspring, and the word the fae use to refer to their sons and daughters. Luckily, while I may have used the term in front of Gabriel, he hadn't been paying enough attention to recognize it now.
"Liv was just about to tell me about her river plunge," Patrick continued. "If you want to hear it, you may stay."
"One, I wasn't about to tell you anything," I said. "Two, as the patient here, I think I get to decide who stays and who goes. Yes, you may both stay. Yes, I will tell the story...on the condition that you'll help me figure out what the hell is going on, regardless of our agreement."
"However," Gabriel interjected, "any lifting of the terms is temporary, confined to this discussion only, and does not in any way relieve either party of their contractual obligations going forward."
"Would you like that in writing, Gabriel?" Ioan said.
"Preferably, yes. But in this instance, I believe you and Patrick can act as our witnesses to each other's agreement, given that you are unlikely to collude in disavowing that agreement."
Ioan gave a dismissive wave and moved forward, as if getting closer to my bedside, while effectively putting Gabriel at his back. When my lips tightened, he wisely shifted to the side.
I told Ioan and Patrick the story. When I finished, I said, "The obvious issue here is that there's a young--apparently human--woman who works with lamaie. And she knows enough to set up fae-detection traps."
"Mhacasamhail," Patrick said.
Ioan shook his head. "There's no such thing as mhacasamhail."
"No such thing as fairies, either."
"Don't I wish," Ioan muttered.
"Not unless you're into self-annihilation."
"The Cwn Annwn are not--"
"Are, too."
"My God," I said. "How old are you two?"
"I'm older," Patrick said. "Cwn Annwn don't live nearly as long as other fae. That's because--"
Ioan cleared his throat, cutting him off.
"Oh, come on," Patrick said. "Let me tell her. The rules of the agreement are temporarily suspended."
Gabriel shook his head. "That opens the door to retaliation, and we have a case to focus on."
Patrick sighed. "Oh, sure, be reasonable about it."
"He must get that from his mother's side," Ioan said.
I shot him a warning look and said to Patrick, "Tell me more about mha..."
"Mhacasamhail. It's Gaelic, meaning counterpart or equal, which is not exactly accurate, but it's the term that was chosen for these families."
"And if they're going to pick a term, why not go with the toughest one to pronounce?" I said. "Do I even want to know how it's spelled?"
"Probably not. The Americans go by samhail. Typical immigration. Come to America and simplify your name because we wouldn't want anyone to strain themselves linguistically."
"Uh-huh," I said. "So modern samhail--"
"--are a fairy tale," Ioan grumbled. "In the most literal sense of the term."
"You may state your case for that when Patrick's done."
Patrick chuckled. "Liv knows when she has the upper hand, and she's not afraid to use it. Must get that from her mother's side."
"Enough," I said. "Seriously, you two. I feel like I'm trying to plan a wedding with rival mothers-in-law. Patrick, focus. The samhail."
Patrick explained that they used the word for counterpart to recognize an equal relationship. A symbiotic one. An entire bloodline of the samhail would bond to a specific type of fae and provide any assistance those fae needed when interacting with the human world. In return, the fae would use their powers to enrich the samhail's lives.
"You may confirm that in my library when you get home," he said. "I can also tell you Ioan's side. He'll say the samhail were real but have long since died out. Whether he actually believes that is another story."
Ioan bristled. "The Cwn Annwn do not lie."
"I know, it's one of your many failings."
"Stop," I said. "Ioan, is he right? The part about the samhail, at least?"
"He is. I will admit that we have had sporadic reports of them. Very sporadic, though, and unproven. I suspect they are humans who know about the fae and assist them but are not samhail."
"But the lamiae would only accept the girl's help if there's a familial bond," Patrick said. "One allowing them to trust her. I know of no other group who match that description. Do you?"
Ioan hesitated, then shook his head.
"Then I propose that we tell Liv about the samhail," Patrick said. "On the understanding this young woman may or may not be one of them. Agreed?"
I nodded.
"Excellent. Ioan, the floor is yours. Then Liv may get further information from my library."
Ioan snorted. "Nice try, bocan. I'm not telling you what the Cwn Annwn know about samhail."
Patrick sighed and turned to me. "I'll amend my proposal to this: Ioan and I will conclude our visit and allow you to rest, and when you're released, we'll provide you with what you need, separately, on the understanding it won't be shared. Now, Ioan, let's see if we can walk to the parking garage together without bloodshed."
Ioan nodded and said his goodbyes. I thanked him for the flowers and the basket. When Patrick cleared his throat, I ignored him.
"Tell Ricky I said hello," Ioan said before he started out.
"Oh, that's right," Patrick said. "Where is the boy?"
"He had classes," I said.
Patrick's lips twitched. "You don't have classes, do you, Gabriel? Of course not. Because you are an adult." He looked at Ioan. "A grown member of society, with a respectable job and a legal source of income."
"From what I hear, I wouldn't call all of it legal."
"Good God," I muttered. "Just go. Both of you."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ricky had said that hypothermia causes mental confusion. I was sure I'd be using that as an excuse for any less-than-brilliant choices over the next month, but one sign that I was still suffering from some lingering effects is the fact that I endured that day in the hospital with minimal complaint.
To say I hate hospitals is an understatement. It had always seemed a bizarre and groundless fear for a healthy kid. Then I discovered I'd been born w
ith spina bifida--the condition my mother's murders had cured. I'm sure I spent a lot of time in hospitals over the first two years of my life, and I'm sure little of it was pleasant.
Knowing the cause of a phobia does not resolve it, though. At first, waking in the hospital, I'd had a general sense of anxiety. Even that ebbed and flowed as I talked to Gabriel and Ricky, then Patrick and Ioan. As the day wore on and the meds wore off, the more anxious I got, until the nurse came to check on me and I mentioned the possibility of a discharge before nightfall. She left, laughing.
Gabriel watched her go, and then got to his feet. "I'll fix this."
"No," I said. "She's right. I'm in no shape to look after myself."
"I can do that."
"You've done enough. More than enough. I'll spend another night and--"
"You don't want to be here," he said as he walked to the door.
And that was the sum of the argument. I didn't want to be in the hospital, so he would make sure I wasn't, even if it meant taking care of me himself.
He jumped into the river to save me.
I still struggled to understand that. Patrick had said it, and Gabriel hadn't argued, which meant it was true.
You fell off the bridge. So I fixed that.
I wanted to acknowledge what Gabriel had done, if it's possible to truly thank someone for saving your life. But at worst, he'd find some excuse to leave until I got over all that emotional nonsense. At best, he'd remind me of the times I'd risked my life for him, and I didn't want that, either, because it made this a repayment of debt. He didn't stand on that bridge and make a conscious decision to erase an obligation by jumping in after me. If he had, he certainly wouldn't have ducked the subject when Patrick brought it up.
Gabriel returned to tell me I'd been discharged. I had to sign something acknowledging that I was leaving against the doctor's orders, but otherwise I was free to go.
I was thrilled. Someone else was not.
"You are leaving against doctor's orders," Ricky said when I called to tell him. "Do you get that?"
"Of course--"
"No, I don't think you do, Liv. You want out. Badly. I understand that. But you nearly drowned. You suffered from hypothermia and a concussion. You didn't wake up for thirty hours. You can't walk out of the hospital on day one."
"Technically, it's day two."
As soon as I said that, I regretted it. He was seriously concerned for me, and I was making jokes.
"I--" I began.
"I get it," he said. "Gabriel gives you what you want, and I have to play the heavy, the guy who--" He inhaled sharply. "No, I'm not going to...Hell, yes. Yes, I am, because I'm pissed, Liv. Gabriel is being irresponsible. He's giving you what you want because you want it, and that's all that matters."
I'll fix this for you.
"You're right," I said. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't make you be the grown-up."
"You don't--"
"Yes, sometimes we do," I said as Gabriel walked back in. "I'll stay another night, and get some rest."
"As long as you're in that place, you can't rest." He exhaled a loud sigh. "Fuck. I don't know. Are you staying in the city or going home?"
"We hadn't..."
"You hadn't planned that far." Another sigh. "Can we do that, then? I know you'd be more comfortable in Cainsville, but I'd like you closer to a hospital. You're welcome to stay at my place. I'm supposed to do some work with my dad tonight, but I can either skip that or Gabriel can watch you until I get back."
Gabriel gestured for me to hand over the phone. If he can overhear a conversation, he doesn't see the point in pretending otherwise.
"I do have a plan," he said. "Whatever Ricky might think."
"I never said he didn't," Ricky said.
"Hash it out with him," I said, passed the phone over, and thumped back on the pillows.
--
Two hours later, I was heading to Gabriel's condo. His plan included a nurse drop-in visit Thursday morning and a more thorough visit from Dr. Webster in Cainsville on Friday.
When we got up to his apartment, he declared it a work-free night. We'd do something fun. How about...? Cue two minutes of awkward silence.
"I have this," I said, waving Patrick's book.
"I said fun. If you'd like a novel, I have some that I suspect are more to your taste."
"I thought you didn't read fiction?"
"If you'd like quiet time, that's perfectly understandable." He went into his room, fetched pillows, and returned to the sofa. "But I thought we could do something together."
"Sure."
"Perhaps..." Ten seconds. Then, "You like movies. We'll watch one of those."
"Uh..." My gaze swept the screen-free condo. "On what?"
"Oh. Yes. Of course." He looked around. "Maybe on your laptop."
"How about cards?" I said. "You've gotta be able to play, considering you put yourself through college running an illegal gambling ring."
"Allegedly."
"Um, no. You confirmed that, remember?"
His lips twitched in the barest smile. "Ah, right. I certainly can play. However, you may also recall that I'm rather gifted at--"
"Cheating?"
"I was going to say sleight of hand."
"Same thing."
"Allegedly."
I smiled. "Well, I'm not going to wager. We will, however, need cards. Do you have a deck?"
"No, but I can acquire one far more easily than I can acquire a television."
"Mmm, I don't know. I bet one of your neighbors has a lovely big-screen TV you could lift faster than you could go out and buy a deck of cards."
His eyes glinted. "I thought you weren't wagering tonight."
I laughed. "Tempting, but we'd better stick to cards."
"Then make yourself comfortable. I'll be back shortly."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
That night, I dreamed that Gabriel found us something fun to do together. And it wasn't cards.
I woke from the dream, stretching in bed, pillows against me, face buried in them, inhaling the smell of him, drowsy and happy and--
Oh, shit.
I jumped up, pushing the pillow away and gasping for breath, struggling to clear the images from my mind because...Shit, shit, shit.
It was one thing to stay overnight at a guy's house. It was another to sleep in his bed. And it was another still when you could smell him in that bed, as if he was lying right beside you.
Shit, shit, shit.
I flicked on the bedside light. I still picked up the faint scent of him, tugging along the image of Gabriel himself, in bed and--
He'd wanted to change the sheets earlier, but I'd said not to bother. Insisted on it, actually. Maybe because I didn't want those sheets changed. I'd remembered other nights, the faint smell of him coming through the fresh pillowcase.
I had to change the sheets. At least that should keep me from having any unwelcome dreams. But doing that in the middle of the night? At best, it would suggest my head injury might be serious. At worst, it would be downright rude, implying the sheets stunk.
I glanced at the bedside table. Gabriel had picked up ginger ale because that's what I'd had in the hospital. I splashed the sheet with sticky soda.
Off with the soiled sheets. Now to find a new set.
A peek in the bedroom closet showed clothing. The en suite bathroom didn't have a closet. I'd seen one in the main bath, so I tiptoed through the living room and inside, closing the door all but a crack before turning on the light.
I opened the bathroom closet. Toiletries. Towels. A folded duvet cover, which suggested there were sheets in here somewhere. The shelves ran deep, and I tugged out the duvet cover and what looked like unused pillow shams--yeah, really couldn't imagine Gabriel using pillow shams. There was something behind them. A box. I peeked in and...
It looked like cans. I pulled one out. I didn't stop to consider whether I should--it was cans, not hidden client files.
I was holding a can of beef
stew.
I reached into the box and felt around. More cans. Okay, well, that wasn't what I'd expected, but it was none of my business. I backed out and...
And Gabriel was standing right there. Still dressed from the day before, in trousers and a half-buttoned shirt.
"Hey, sorry," I said. "I spilled pop on the sheets and was looking for clean ones and--"
I lifted my hands in a shrug and realized I was still holding the stew. He looked at it. He looked at me. I put the can back so fast it clanged against the others, and I shoved the duvet and shams back in.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Really sorry. I wasn't snooping. That's why I didn't close the door and...And I guess I should have asked, but I didn't want to wake you, and I figured this was the obvious place, and I saw the duvet and there was something behind it and..."
And I'm babbling. Desperately babbling in hopes you'll get that look off your face.
Except it wasn't a look. That was the problem. His face was blank, and that emptiness wasn't a lack of emotion or reaction--it was a ten-foot-thick wall of ice.
I closed the closet door. "If you can just direct me to the sheets. Or get them. Right, that's better. You get them, and I'll put them on, and you can go back to bed. I'm sorry for disturbing you. Really sorry--"
He turned and walked out. I hesitated. Then I followed him into the bedroom. He was opening the dresser's bottom drawer and removing sheets.
I forced a strained laugh. "I would never have looked there. Thanks. I really didn't want to be looking at all. I just thought I'd check the bathroom closet and then I'd have given up." I had my hands out for the sheets, but he walked past me and started unfolding them on the bed.
"I can do that," I said.
No response.
I picked up the discarded sheets. "Where can I put these? You send it out, right? Is there someplace..."
He started making the bed. I folded the soiled sheets as well as I could, babbling the whole time.
Just going to put these here, right over here, and did I mention how sorry I am for snooping, except I wasn't really snooping, because I'd never do that.
"I'm going to take the sofa," I said. "I'm so sorry about this. I guess the sheets weren't that wet. I should have just left them."
He picked up a pillow and changed the case.
"I am sorry," I said. "You know I don't pry. I hope you know that. I'll...I'll be on the sofa, and I'll see you in the morning."
I got halfway to the door. Then, "Wait."
I turned. He had his back to me, kneeling in front of the bedside table, and I thought I'd misheard, but I paused anyway. He reached under the top shelf of the table. There was a ripping sound. He folded a length of duct tape and set it on the table. Then he turned with a gun in his hand.