Deceptions

by Kelley Armstrong

  He nodded, and we continued in silence. When we reached the corner of Beechwood and I started to turn onto it, he cleared his throat.

  "Maybe we shouldn't go that way."

  I looked down the street. The sun was still out, people cutting lawns and tending gardens, enjoying the warm June evening. I couldn't see the house, hidden behind the towering maples, but I could spot the fence, wrought-iron with chimeras. The Carew house, where I'd first had the visions, one of Matilda that had spiraled me into a dangerous fever.

  "I just want--" I began.

  "Quickly," he said.

  I started walking, faster now, pulled toward that house. When we reached the gate, I unlatched it and stepped through. He stayed on the sidewalk.

  "We aren't going inside," he said.

  "I'm not. I'm just . . ." I trailed off, looking at the house.

  "We aren't going inside." Anger edged his words. "I know you want answers, but this isn't how you'll get them. I won't do that again."

  "I didn't take off on you at the Villa. I--"

  A middle-aged couple walking on the opposite side of the road slowed to watch us.

  "Can we go around back?" I said. "Into the gardens. I won't step inside the house. I just don't want to stand out here."

  Seconds ticked by as he considered.

  "Please," I said. "I need a few moments of . . . of peace. I'll find it in the garden. Five minutes, and we can leave. I swear."

  He nodded abruptly.

  We went around the house. It was a Queen Anne, with a rounded porch, columns, and huge bay windows. The gardens were classic Victorian. No grass here. Only cobblestone walks, empty flower beds, and a fishpond with a fountain. I walked over to a statue in the corner. It was of a young woman, naked, raking her fingers through tousled, wet hair. At her feet was what looked like a fur rug, until I got closer and saw it was a sealskin. She was a selkie.

  There were at least a dozen other statues, perhaps more small ones hidden under ivy. When I'd first come here, I'd paid little attention to the ones that seemed human, my attention instead drawn to the fantastical--the water dragons and trolls. Now I realized the humans weren't human at all.

  I glanced at the house. Had Glenys Carew known what Cainsville was? Or had she, like Rose, only sensed it, and become captivated with images of the fair folk, like Rose was fascinated by their folklore?

  Gabriel stood in front of a bench but gave no sign of wanting to sit. Silently waiting. On guard, too, against me breaking my word.

  I joined him. "At the Villa, when you didn't want me going inside, I really wasn't ignoring you. I saw you go inside, so I followed. Like in the alley. I was only trying to find you."

  He dipped his chin, acknowledging me, but he stayed rigid, his eyes hidden behind his shades.

  "I can be stubborn," I said. "But you know it's more than that. I want to face whatever's out there. It'd be too easy to hide. Too tempting. Just pull the covers over my head until it all goes away. But today? You were right. I didn't need to see . . ." I swallowed. "I really didn't need to see James like that."

  "True, but encountering his ghost may help in the long term."

  "You heard me tell Rose I saw that?"

  "I wasn't supposed to? I'm sorry for not realizing it was a private conversation. But you mentioned that he apologized and I'm glad you had that opportunity, even if I'd have preferred you could have avoided seeing his body."

  He said it so matter-of-factly, just like he treated omens, fae, and visions. The question of what I'd seen was not a question at all. Clearly, I'd seen a ghost.

  James's ghost.

  My breath hitched, and I turned around fast, before the tears came.

  "Sorry," I said. "Just give me a moment." Did I actually just say that? All the times I'd given him shit for saying take a moment, the very phrase bristling with impatience. I wanted to make a joke about that, but when I opened my mouth, a hiccuping sob escaped. I pressed my palms to my eyes.

  Get it together. You can break down later. Don't dump this on him.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just that it's still sinking in."

  "I wish you wouldn't . . ." He trailed off.

  "You wish I wouldn't keep breaking down."

  A long moment of silence. Then, "That wasn't what I was going to say, Olivia."

  He cleared his throat, as if struggling to find words, and I swore I heard a soft growl of frustration.

  "It's okay," I said. "Whatever you meant, I--"

  "I meant that I wish you wouldn't apologize for your reactions. I wish that you didn't feel the need to apologize. But I understand why you do. You are correct. I have little patience with emotional outbursts. Yet sometimes I may convey the impression of impatience when I'm simply frustrated by the awareness that I am . . . not responding . . . in a way . . ."

  I felt sparks of friction, of discomfort, as if I were forcing his hand into a tank of electric eels.

  I wanted to turn to him, but I was afraid if I did, he'd mistake my smile for mockery. I squeezed my eyes shut, finding the right expression, and--

  Gabriel's hands slid around my waist, pulling me against him, his chest warm and solid, his chin lowering to rest on my head as his arms tightened around me. As I leaned back into him, I kept my eyes closed because I knew if I opened them, I wouldn't see the garden. I wouldn't see Gabriel's arms around me. I'd fallen into a vision.

  The arms tightened again, hands finding mine and holding them, calming me. I tried to tell myself it could be Gabriel, that in the right moment, the right environment, the awkwardness and discomfort could fall away and Gabriel could hug me like this.

  I still didn't open my eyes. Not even a crack. Because I knew, in my gut, it wasn't him.

  The arms loosened then, hands still holding mine, tugging me around to face him. Then the hands went around me, sliding up my back, into my hair, his mouth coming down to mine in a perfect kiss, so sweet and warm and all-consuming it pushed everything else from my mind. And if there was any doubt, any at all, it vanished, and I knew this was not Gabriel.

  And if it was?

  I jumped at the thought, disentangling fast, eyes snapping open to see . . .

  The man from my vision, the night of the fever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Tall, golden-haired, impossibly handsome. His skin seemed to glow as bright as the sun over his shoulder. We were in a field, long grass swaying in the breeze, a blue butterfly winging past, the distant burble of a stream mingling with soft birdcalls. A perfect summer's day in a perfect summer's meadow, and all I could think was, Where's Gabriel? I heard the words coming from my lips, "Where is he?"

  The man stiffened, and in that movement I saw something familiar, but it vanished in a blink. As he opened his mouth to answer, I said, "I need to get back to him."

  "No, you do not."

  "Yes, I--"

  "You chose me, Matilda. You said it was me. Always me."

  While I heard anger in his voice, all I saw in his eyes was worry and fear, bordering on panic.

  Yes, it's you. It's always been you. It will always be you. But we need to speak to him. He must know. That's only right. He's important. To both of us. You cannot do this to him. We cannot.

  I felt the words inside, waiting to be spoken, and he paused for them, like an actor patiently waiting for his cue. In the other vision, it had felt as if I was a spectator, watching from inside the body of another, unable to control her words or deeds. This time, I felt the words, but they simply swirled there, awaiting release.

  "Who are you?" I asked instead.

  A flicker of confusion. "Who am I?"

  "Yes. Who are you?"

  His lips lifted in a slow smile. "Making a point, l'annwylyd? All right, then. I'll play along. I am Gwynn ap Nudd."

  The breeze chilled, sun slipping behind a cloud, and I remembered the little girl, reaching for Gabriel's hand, and how he'd seemed to sense it and had pulled back with a scowl.

  What have they done to yo
u, Gwynn ap Nudd?

  I shivered. The man's hand gripped my elbow, his touch as warm and welcome as the sun in winter.

  "Matilda?"

  I looked at him, and I remembered the little girl again.

  Not reincarnated. Reimagined. Not reborn, but born anew. As he is not Gwynn ap Nudd nor the other Arawn. You are and you are not. You are born to play the roles again.

  "I don't understand," I said.

  The man sighed, his arms going around me. "I know. You're angry with me for not wanting to tell Arawn. But it is only because I don't want to distract him from his duties. We'll tell him soon and he'll be happy for us, and he'll dance at our wedding."

  His hands went to the back of my head again, pulling me into a kiss, but I broke free.

  "No," I said. "I won't do this. I promised."

  His face clouded. "Arawn? You promised--?"

  I stepped back, squeezing my eyes shut. "No, I promised I wouldn't try to find answers. Not tonight." I took a deep breath. "Gabriel?"

  A hand closed on my elbow, and even before I opened my eyes, I knew it still wasn't him.

  "Matilda?"

  I looked up at Gwynn and tried to see Gabriel instead, but I couldn't.

  Not reborn. Not reincarnated.

  And I was glad of it. One less thing for my overloaded brain to deal with, one less complication--

  "Matilda?" He tilted his head, and when he did, something in the angle of his jaw . . .

  "No!" I snarled the word and squeezed my eyes shut. "Gab-ri-el!"

  The force of the shift hit me like a sandbag in the gut. I toppled backward. Hands grabbed me. Too hard. Too tight. Yanking me upright before I fell. Holding me there, still too tight, like a parent restraining a wayward child. Gabriel. There was absolutely no doubt that it was him, even before he said, "Olivia?" his voice tight with annoyance. My eyes were open, but everything was blurred by a red-tinged fog. He gripped me by both wrists, his fingers digging in.

  "Olivia?"

  The fog cleared, and I saw those ice-cold, pale blue eyes boring into mine. I felt his rough grip and heard his snapped words, and I didn't wish for anything else. This was the Gabriel I knew, and that was more comforting than any kind words or gentle embraces.

  "I'm okay," I said.

  "No, you are not." His hand went to my forehead, a near slap that made me flinch. He didn't seem to notice, just pressed his cool fingers there, then muttered, "Goddamn it!" I wasn't sure what startled me more, the curse or the venom in it. He released one of my wrists but tightened his grip on the other and started half dragging me. When I resisted, he turned sharply and said, "Can you walk?"

  "Yes, but--"

  He pulled me to the bench and propelled me down, then crouched in front of me, his eyes level with mine. In them, I saw rage seething like a winter's storm.

  "I--" I began.

  His hand slapped to my forehead again. "You have a fever." He held up one hand. "How many fingers do you see?"

  "I didn't hit my head, Gabriel. I--"

  "Given that you were shouting for me and I was right there, trying to shake you out of it, I'll ask whatever I damned well want. How many fingers?"

  "Two. I--"

  "This has to stop."

  "If I'd known it would happen when I came here--"

  "The location doesn't matter. Not anymore. At this house, at that Villa, on the street, in a field. One minute you're here, and then you aren't. It has to stop."

  "If I had any idea how to do that, do you think I wouldn't? If it's such a goddamn inconvenience, Gabriel, then walk away. If I zone out? If I wander off? Walk away."

  He got to his feet. "Have I ever said it's an inconvenience? That anything you do is an inconvenience? I'm trying to help, Olivia."

  "Then stop yelling at me."

  His gaze went so cold I shivered in spite of the lingering fever.

  "I have not raised my voice--" he began.

  "Stop snapping at me. Stop snarling and glowering and making me feel like I'm inconveniencing you."

  He put his shades back on. When he spoke again, his words were formal. "I cannot help how I make you feel, Olivia. If you misinterpret--"

  "How the hell else am I supposed to interpret it, Gabriel? You're giving me shit for--" I got to my feet and walked to the back of the garden, trying to get my temper back under control.

  "What do you want?" Gabriel said.

  "The same thing you do," I said. "For these damned visions--"

  "Not you. Them. What the hell do you want?"

  I turned to see Ida and Walter at the gate. Between the tone, the glare, and the profanity, Gabriel had stopped them in their tracks.

  "Is everything all right?" Ida said.

  There was a moment when he seemed almost ready to snarl and say, What the fuck does it look like? Yes, everything's just fucking wonderful. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his face, and when he lowered it, that winter's storm was gone and the cold front was back, freezing the Clarks with a stare.

  "I would like you to leave now," he said.

  Walter looked at Ida, and Ida stepped back and started to close the gate.

  Gabriel strode forward, so abruptly he startled them. "No," he said. "Actually, I don't want you to leave. I want you to fix this."

  "Fix what?" Ida asked.

  He waved at me.

  When they looked perplexed, I said, "He means me. Apparently, I'm broken, and it's annoying him."

  Now I got the cold glower. I met it with one of my own. He turned back to the Clarks.

  "Olivia is having visions, and--"

  "Visions?" Ida worked hard to affix a proper expression of sympathy on her face, but she looked like a starving coyote spotting roadkill. "What kind of visions?"

  Gabriel moved between us. She looked up at him. "What kind of visions, Gabriel? I can't help her if I don't know."

  He met her gaze and said nothing. After five seconds of silence, he replied with, "She is having visions. You will fix them or tell her how to fix them. Now."

  "The visions are important for--"

  "For you, I'm sure. For Olivia, they're dangerous. She spiked a hundred-and-four-degree fever after one last week. I understand that you might not be well versed in human physiology, so let me explain. At a hundred and five degrees, brain damage can occur and the fever becomes life-threatening. If you suspect me of exaggerating, please speak to Dr. Webster."

  A hundred-and-four-degree fever? No wonder he worried every time my temperature rose.

  "I'm sorry--" Ida began.

  "No, you're not."

  Her lips tightened and a warning flashed in her eyes. "Yes, Gabriel, I am. You're upset, so I'm tolerating your disrespect--"

  "You will tolerate my disrespect even when I'm not upset, Ida. Or you can ask me to leave Cainsville. If I was respectful in the past, it was due to compulsion. I don't give a damn what your plans are. I care that Olivia is being forced to watch visions of people and fae dying, horribly, for no apparent purpose--"

  "There is a purpose, Gabriel. Anything she's seeing is for a reason."

  "She's having dangerous fevers and falling into visions in the street, ones that could have her stumbling into the path of a car. If anything happens to her, Ida, I will hold you responsible."

  "We would never hurt--" Ida began.

  "Then fix this."

  Ida locked glares with Gabriel. "If Olivia is seeing visions, Gabriel, it's because she needs to see them. We can't stop them. As angry as you are right now, I know you understand how important Olivia is to us and that we'd do nothing to harm her."

  "Can I control them?" I asked. All three looked at me as if one of the statues had begun speaking. "Is there some way of letting them play out, fully and safely, and getting it over with?"

  The silence that followed told me the answer was no, but after a moment Ida said, "If you tell us exactly what you're seeing--all of it--we might be able to figure out some--"

  "Nice try," I said. "Let's do it the other way. Tell
me when you figure out how I can have these visions safely, and if it works, I'll share what I see. Deal?"

  Gabriel nodded, agreeing with my suggestion. Then he put his hand to my back and steered me past them to the gate.

  "We'd still like to speak to you, Olivia," Walter said. "Not about this. About other things. We're glad you're back."

  "Temporarily."

  "Still, we're glad you're back."

  "Even if you didn't come alone," Ida added. "But we're pleased you sent him away."

  "Olivia didn't send Ricky away," Gabriel said. "He will return tonight. I trust that won't be a problem."

  "We would rather--" Walter began.

  "I trust that won't be a problem," Gabriel said, enunciating slowly.

  The Clarks looked at each other, undoubtedly seeing their fae-baby dreams pop like soap bubbles.

  When they didn't respond, Gabriel continued. "If Olivia chooses to come to Cainsville, she may bring whomever she likes. If she cannot invite whomever she likes, then she'll need to find a home where she can, and I will help her do that. Is that clear?"

  After a long pause, Ida spoke, so grudgingly the words seemed to be dragged out with an industrial winch. "Yes, that's clear, Gabriel. We'll respect your wishes."

  "They're Olivia's wishes."

  A glimmer lit her eyes. "That's why you're insisting, then. Not because you agree about him, but because it pleases Olivia--"

  "They're our wishes," he said. "Ricky Gallagher is an associate of mine and I do not appreciate hearing him maligned."

  Something like alarm passed behind Ida's gaze. "Because he's your client? Or your friend?"

  Gabriel rocked back, as if flinching from the word.

  I cut in. "This isn't about friendship or a lack of it."

  "Actually, yes, it is." Ida looked at Gabriel. "Do you consider Richard Gallagher a friend?"

  "I don't see how that's important," I said.

  "It's very important."

  I shook my head, said, "We're done here," and let Gabriel steer me past them and out the garden gate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Are we okay?" I asked Gabriel as we walked back to Rose's.

  Dusk was deepening to night, but he still had his shades on. "What do you mean?" he asked.

  "We've had a rough couple of days," I said. "The visions, Macy, Todd, James. It's been a roller coaster. Between us, too. We're fine and then . . . we're not. I know that's because of everything that's happening. Stress and tension. But I feel as if I'm the one instigating it--"