So that's the story, and the direction our lives are supposed to take. The champions do battle for the hand of the maiden, and the winning side takes all, gaining the most precious gift for the fae: the power to survive in the modern world.
A nice story...for someone else.
We've decided we don't particularly like our roles. Gabriel isn't the jealous and treacherous Gwynn. Ricky isn't the reckless and impetuous Arawn. And I'm sure as hell not the hapless and helpless Matilda.
We've told the Cwn Annwn and Tylwyth Teg to back the hell off or they're going to make enemies of all three of us. That's how we can stand against them: by sticking together as the original three could not.
The two sides haven't abandoned their hopes. They can't, because their continued existence depends on my eventual choice. As civilization consumes nature and pollutes the elements, the fae lose the natural energy they need to survive. Having a Matilda cleanses their land. But I don't have enough mojo to go around--hence the need to choose. The Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn had given me half a year to come to terms with both my role and my powers. I had two months left. Then the battle was set to begin.
Except now someone was trying to change the timetable.
--
Ricky and I were heading out to spend the night in my Cainsville apartment. We left the clubhouse at one. I was on the back of Ricky's bike, enjoying the buzz from three shots of Scotch and the vibrations from the Harley's motor, my fingers slipping around Ricky and up his thighs, his chuckle rippling through me.
He pointed to the countryside whipping past and then at the road ahead. Asking if I wanted to pull over or keep going. I tapped his leg, which meant it was up to him. He gunned the bike and then moved my hand further down his thigh. In other words, if I was okay with not stopping for sex right away, he'd take a little more of what I'd started.
I smiled, my hand sliding to his crotch, rubbing as he accelerated--
He hit the brakes so fast I lurched, and his hand moved to my leg, steadying me and squeezing in apology. Then I saw what he had--a dark car with its lights off, almost hidden in a tree-shrouded drive.
Ricky would have noticed if it'd been here when we drove in. He was the son of a biker gang leader. He was also a member of that gang. The future leader of that gang. He did not miss anything so near his clubhouse. Sure enough, as we drew near, the car pitched forward. Then lights flashed...and Ricky relaxed.
I had to smile at that. In his world, if someone was lying in wait on an empty country road, he hoped it was the police.
He pulled to the shoulder and I hopped off the bike, removing my helmet as he did the same. He put up the kickstand and had his ID waiting before the cops even got out of the car.
They were plainclothes officers, which suggested detectives, as did the unmarked car. I reached into my pocket, fingers hitting buttons on my phone.
The senior partner took Ricky's ID without a word. He examined it and then said, "Had anything to drink tonight, Richard?" twisting the name, suggesting he knew full well that wasn't what Ricky went by.
"A beer at eight when we arrived at the clubhouse. Another at about eleven-thirty. I don't think I finished that one, but you're welcome to test me."
Ricky was right about the drinks. His father, Don, had strict rules about drinking and driving, mainly because it gave the cops one more reason to hassle them. Ricky kept further under his limit, even if it meant resorting to tricks like exchanging a half bottle of beer for a fresh one so the guys wouldn't rib him.
"And you?" The officer shone his flashlight full in my face.
Ricky tensed, but he only said, "She's a passenger, so her blood alcohol doesn't matter. Yes, she's been drinking. Three shots of Scotch since about eleven-thirty, which puts her over the legal limit."
"That's dangerous, on the back of a bike."
"She hangs on tight."
I managed not to crack a smile at that and said, "I'm nowhere near the level for public intoxication."
"We'll call an officer to drive you home. We're going to need to speak to your 'date' down at the station."
"She's my girlfriend, not my hookup," Ricky said. "As for leaving..." He glanced at me and I stepped forward, my hand extended.
"Olivia Taylor-Jones. I work for Gabriel Walsh, legal representative for Mr. Gallagher."
"Did you say Taylor...?"
"Yes. That Olivia Taylor-Jones. Formerly Eden Larsen. You mentioned questioning. May I ask what it is in regards to?"
The detective pulled himself up to his full height, which fell below mine. I'm only five-eight, but my boots added extra inches.
"Are you a lawyer?" he asked.
"No," his heretofore-silent younger partner said. "She's a private investigator who works for Walsh. She has a master's degree from Yale. English major, I think. But she got her PI license recently."
The lead gave him a look, and the younger one mumbled, "It was in the papers."
"He's correct," I said. "Unless you have a warrant to arrest Ricky, any questioning you need to do can be done at our office...after Mr. Walsh arrives."
"We don't need--"
"Gabriel?" I said, lifting my phone from my pocket and hitting the speaker button. "Did you get all that?"
"Yes." His deep voice sounded across the line, the clink of keys telling me he was on his way even before he said, "I'll meet you there."
CHAPTER THREE
When we arrived, Gabriel was already at the office. He hassled the senior partner--Detective Amos--about the pull-over and the middle-of-the-night questioning. Setting the tone, much as Ricky had. The biker was a reasonable guy; his lawyer was the asshole. That wasn't an act, either.
Gabriel is one of the best defense attorneys in Chicago. One of the most infamous, too--blackmail, intimidation, and extortion were just a few tricks in his bag. A lawyer is supposed to represent his client to the best of his ability, and Gabriel really can, because he doesn't worry about pesky obstacles like ethics and conscience.
If you put them side by side, and asked which was the biker, most people would guess Gabriel. Yes, he's about six-four and built like a linebacker. But it's more than that. Gabriel is that moment before a storm when everything seems preternaturally calm but you can feel the electricity in the air, and know you'll get no exact warning when danger and destruction comes. Ricky is as warm and calm as a summer's day, and while there can be storms, you'll get plenty of warning, and it'll be a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder, passing quickly, the sun blazing bright again.
Only when Gabriel decided he'd suitably reprimanded Amos for his missteps did he usher us all into the meeting room.
As soon as we took our seats, Amos slapped down a photo of Ricky in a bar. Someone sat across from him--me. I recognized the sleeve of my jacket. Amos laid out three more photos. One was of Ricky getting off his bike. One was of him leaving a lecture hall. The last was of him sitting under a tree with me again, my back to the camera.
"It seems someone has my client under surveillance," Gabriel said. "I presume this is your work?"
"No, it's his."
The detective laid down another photo. I took one look at the man in the photo and inhaled involuntarily, catching a sharp look from Gabriel and a confused one from Ricky.
"You know this man, Miss Larsen?" Amos asked.
"It's Taylor-Jones," Gabriel rumbled. "And Ms. is preferred. Olivia is not the subject of this interview, so please do not question her."
"But..." I began. "That's Matt, isn't it? The barista down the road?"
Another glimmer of confusion from Ricky. Gabriel, though, understood in a heartbeat. Yes, there was a barista named Matt at our regular coffee shop. Yes, like this guy, he was around thirty, light-haired, and bearded. But I'd only made the comment to cover my initial reaction. Gabriel smoothly went on to say that yes, this man resembled our barista but he didn't think it was. Perhaps Detective Amos could confirm that?
As Amos answered, I had to fight to keep from staring
at the picture. Because I did indeed recognize the subject. He was the killer in my vision earlier that evening.
"...name is Ciro Halloran," Amos was saying when I forced my attention back on track.
"And this was the man taking photos of Mr. Gallagher?" Gabriel said.
"That's right. Halloran disappeared three days ago. A friend suspected foul play, saying Halloran had been investigating someone dangerous. When we went to Halloran's apartment, we found these." He waved at the photos. "It became clear who Halloran's target was."
"And in what capacity was Mr. Halloran 'investigating' my client?" Gabriel asked.
Amos said nothing, which meant he didn't know.
"You identified Ricky as the person Mr. Halloran feared based solely on the fact you found these photos in his apartment. Is that correct?"
"If you expect me to answer your questions, your client had better be ready to answer mine."
"So I'll assume Mr. Halloran's friend did not identify Mr. Gallagher as the man Halloran was worried about. You arrived at that conclusion based solely on finding these photos." Gabriel's expression said that was flimsy grounds for stopping Ricky and that he was being generous when he finally said, "All right, ask your questions."
The questions were exactly what one might anticipate. Did Ricky know Ciro Halloran? Did he know why Halloran would be taking photos of him? As I'm sure Amos expected: the answers were no, no, and no. Gabriel had asked him to wrap up the interview when Amos's phone rang. When the detective got off the call, he said, "That was the judge. The search warrant's signed. Let's move this chat to your apartment, Richard."
Gabriel argued against the search, but not strenuously. Ricky knew better than to keep anything incriminating in his apartment. If he needed prescription medicine, he'd have a copy of the script on file. He didn't own a gun, legal or otherwise. As for alcohol or cash, the police wouldn't find more than a six-pack of beer in his fridge and a hundred bucks in his sock drawer.
As we left the office, I murmured to Gabriel, "Can I ride with you?"
"Should we both?" Ricky asked, too low for the detectives to hear.
Gabriel shook his head. "Don wouldn't want you leaving your bike here. We'll meet you at the apartment."
We climbed into Gabriel's Jag. The moment he'd reversed onto the road, he said, "Who is Ciro Halloran?" and I told him.
"So you had a vision tonight?" he said when I finished.
I winced. I'd been telling myself Gabriel wouldn't expect me to call him at midnight to report a vision. I'd been wrong. I knew I'd been wrong. I just...
"I didn't want to bother you," I said. "It was late. I figured it could wait until morning."
Gabriel said nothing for the rest of the drive.
--
The detectives had called in officers to help with the search. Too many officers, given that Ricky's student apartment was maybe four hundred square feet. They were being assholes, making a scene where he lived. Except he didn't really live there. He spent more time at my apartment or his dad's house. This was just his legal address. We didn't tell the cops that. We simply waited in the living room while they searched.
They'd been at it nearly an hour when Amos slapped down a pile of unopened mail in front of Ricky.
"Care to explain this?" he said.
"I hate paying bills?" Ricky said. "Nah, I have a busy schedule and that's my triage system. I tackle the stuff I recognize right away--like bills. I toss out the obvious junk mail. If I'm not sure what it is, I pile it up until I can go through it."
"Go through it now."
"No," Gabriel said. "That's an invasion of privacy. If you saw something in there you'd like to discuss--"
Amos plucked out an envelope and slapped it on top of the pile. It was a personal letter, hand-addressed to "Rick Gallagher." The return address was illegible, the envelope having gotten wet, the ink badly smeared.
"You don't open personal letters?" Amos said.
"People think they can make contact with the club through me. I've also been in the papers lately, with Liv, which means even more unwanted mail."
"That return address isn't water damaged," Amos said. "It's just an ink smear, deliberately done. That's suspicious, which is grounds for me to ask you to open it."
Ricky glanced at Gabriel, who gave a reluctant nod. Ricky opened the envelope and took out a single page, also handwritten, unaddressed and unsigned. He read it aloud:
I know what you did. I've been watching you. You're going to screw up, and when you do, I'll be there to make sure you pay.
Ricky snorted a laugh.
"You find that amusing, Richard?"
"It's like a bad movie script." Ricky put the letter down. "I'm sure you're going to say this is from Halloran. With the part about watching me, it might very well be. So go ahead and do your handwriting analysis or whatever. Even if it's him, I have no idea what he's talking about. I've never met the guy. Never heard of him."
"Are you sure?"
Gabriel cut in. "It would not be the first time my client has been harassed by a stranger for his membership in the Saints motorcycle club. Citizens looking to exercise a tendency toward violence often focus their attention on perceived lawbreakers, in hopes of provoking a confrontation. Such individuals are almost always in need of psychiatric care. The fact Mr. Halloran has disappeared suggests he is one of them."
"Or that your client is responsible for his disappearance."
Gabriel's voice dropped, dangerously. "Perhaps you should clarify, Detective. If you are accusing Mr. Gallagher of a crime, I would like that stated, so I know where we stand."
"Are you familiar with the murder of Lucy Madole?"
Gabriel's blank expression answered for him. At one time I'm sure he'd tracked every local murder, ready to leap and offer his services when a suspect was arrested. He no longer needed to do that. If a suspect wanted him, they knew his name.
I was familiar with the case. Lucy Madole was a doctor, only two years older than me, who had been murdered in a neighborhood where no one should be wandering around at night.
I'd paid attention because the Post's articles had pissed me off, suggesting Madole might have been in that neighborhood selling prescription drugs to "former associates." Not because the suburban-raised, Harvard-educated doctor had known gang ties. Rather, the insinuation seemed based solely on the dark tone of her skin.
"I know the case," I said. "As for what it has to do with this letter..."
"Dr. Madole left behind a husband."
"Sure. I remember that."
"She didn't take her husband's name. Women nowadays don't seem to like doing that. Madole was her birth name. Her husband was Ciro Halloran."
The vision flashed again in my mind. Ciro Halloran carving up a young fae.
Lucy Madole had been beaten and knifed to death.
"I presume there's a point here, Detective?" Gabriel said.
"Oh, I think you see my point, Walsh. Dr. Madole was killed in a part of town she'd never have visited on her own. A part she was obviously lured to. As a doctor, she had access to drugs. Your client sells--"
"If you are going to finish that accusation, you had better be able to support it with evidence."
"We both know he does. His family business does anyway, and the rest is hair-splitting. Dr. Madole was no dope dealer. But she was young, with heavy college debts. And your client? There are a couple of ladies at the precinct who get all giggly when his picture's in the paper. So apparently he's the kinda young man who might have been able to persuade Dr. Madole to sell him a few pills. The kind who might also get pissy if she feels guilty and tries to stop selling them to him." He turned to me. "Wasn't your fiance killed a few months ago? Beaten and stabbed to death?"
"Her ex-fiance, James Morgan, was beaten and strangled," Gabriel cut in quickly before I could react. "Which I know well, as the person accused of his murder. A charge that was dismissed when the real killer, Tristan Crouch, turned himself in. You are very clearl
y suggesting that my client murdered Dr. Madole. I presume you have the evidence to charge him."
Amos said nothing.
"No? Then I believe we are done here. Please conclude your search, and if you have further questions for my client, I'll expect them to come with an arrest warrant."
--
Gabriel left when the police did, and he glanced at me, his mouth tightening when he realized I wasn't following him. He gave a slight chin jerk, telling me to come along...and I looked away. After he was gone, I texted him, saying I'd tell Ricky about Halloran and work the case tomorrow. If he wanted to talk then, let me know.
He didn't text back.
I told Ricky that it'd been Halloran in my vision, killing fae.
"Gabriel should be here," he said. "We should all be discussing this."
"He knows. He's fine."
"I just think--"
"He's fine. I'll talk to him tomorrow."
Ricky shook his head and picked up a textbook as I settled in at my laptop. He drifted off to sleep shortly after that. When he woke at five, seeing me still at my laptop, he said, "You do realize there's no point in both you and Gabriel being up all night researching the exact same things."
"I'm sure he's asleep by now."
"You know he's not. You two--"
"Tomorrow's Saturday."
He took a deep breath and then met my gaze. "I'm not saying I'm worried about Amos tying me to this murder, but I'd kinda like both of you working this. Together."
He held out my phone. I took it.
WAITING GAME
Gabriel had been home for an hour now, and for nearly that long he'd been standing in front of his fifty-fifth-floor window, staring out at the city with a tumbler of Scotch. He hadn't touched the drink. He wouldn't, even if he'd never wanted it more in his life.
No, that wasn't true. There'd been one other time he'd wanted it this badly, one other night he'd spent holding a glass, staring out this window. When Olivia left.
She'd only been away for two weeks, and he'd known she was going. It was a motorcycle trip with Ricky, a much-needed vacation after they broke the case against her parents, discovering that Pamela had indeed murdered four people and Todd let himself also be convicted for the crimes, because she'd done it for Olivia, as part of a deal with the Cwn Annwn to cure Olivia's spina bifida.