The future porn star lived only a few miles from his temporary residence, and it was a lovely morning for a walk, the sun just beginning to rise, the air clean and sharp. Yes, it was another sign of his age that he’d never grown accustomed to motor vehicles. He owned one, of course, but he kept it in storage unless traveling to Cainsville. Otherwise, if he needed a car, he could always liberate one from the curbside. When he could, he preferred to walk.
Heading through that unsavory neighborhood never bothered him. He was a three-hundred-year-old bòcan. Petty criminals were hardly a match for him, and he emanated an aura that said as much—they’d glance his way, only to look off again with a snort, as if telling themselves he wasn’t worth their time.
Patrick was heading down a side road when he heard a cry from one of the alleys. A young woman who hadn’t been quite as successful in scaring off the local predators. He slowed to listen. Had it seemed like a sexual assault, he’d have gotten involved, but what he overheard sounded like a simple mugging. He supposed the victim would not appreciate him calling it “simple,” but if you walk through these streets alone, you’d best leave your valuables behind, lest you be forcibly parted from them.
Still, he had not yet decided against helping. He weighed the current balance. While he could—and did—argue that sex with an aspiring porn star and squatting in an empty manor were acts of community service, he would allow that they did not quite equal sneaking holiday gifts to needy children. One might even consider them zero-sum acts, neither contributing to his debt nor relieving it. And a few recent indiscretions may have tipped the balance more to the debt side of his personal ledger. He’d take a closer look at the situation and see if the trouble warranted the reward.
He crept to the mouth of the alley and peered down it to see a teenage boy with an equally young girl pinned to the wall. The girl’s face was battered and bruised, and she wheezed, as if she’d been struck in the ribs, too.
“Where’s the dope, Seanna?”
“I don’t do that no more.”
“Bullshit. You must have lightened some dude’s stash at that party. I know how you operate. Been your victim myself a few times. Flash those big blue eyes while you slide your fingers into my pocket.”
“I was at the party for a friend. Not to score. I need to stay clean or my aunt will kick me out.”
“Boo-hoo. And bullshit.”
“I’m serious. You already got all my money and my necklace. Go ahead and pat me down. There’s nothing else.”
“Oh, I’ll do more than pat you down, Seanna. We’re going to have some fun. And then you’ll show me where you hid the stash.”
“Uh-uh.” Patrick walked over. “You don’t want to do that.”
The boy turned, his broad face scrunching up. “Who the hell are you? Her father?”
Well, that was a little insulting. Not biologically impossible, of course, but still . . .
“Just a concerned citizen strolling past,” Patrick said.
“Keep strolling, pops. This is none of your business.”
“The safety of the streets is everyone’s business. I’ve already called the police from a pay phone. If you want to entertain yourself while we wait, I’d suggest taking a swing at me.”
The boy sneered. “Not much entertainment when I could knock you over with one hand behind my back.”
“Let’s not overdo it. You can use both. And while we’re at it, how about a wager on the outcome?” Patrick removed a crisp hundred from his wallet. “Will this do?”
The boy dropped Seanna and bore down on Patrick. “Oh, I think your entire wallet will do.”
“We’ll start with this.” Patrick let the breeze catch the bill, and he released it, sending the boy scrambling. He was about to tackle the distracted teen when distant sirens sounded. The boy caught the bill and looked up, following the sound.
“I’d say they’re about thirty seconds out,” Patrick said. “Perhaps you just want to take that hundred—”
The boy was already running. Seanna turned to bolt, too, but Patrick caught her by the shoulder, saying, “I don’t think you want to go with him.”
“The police—”
“First thing you need to learn if you like picking pockets? The difference between a police siren and an ambulance. Second? Don’t carry drugs while you’re lightening wallets, because the sentence for that will be much harsher.”
“I don’t have—” she began.
“Then you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to get out of here.”
“I’m holding it for a friend.”
“Yes, yes. Now, as there are no actual police coming, Seanna—”
“How do you know my name?”
“Because your friend there used it.”
Which was true. Yet he also knew her surname: Walsh. Seanna Walsh, niece of Rose, the aunt she’d undoubtedly referred to.
As bruised and bloodied as the girl’s face was, he had only to see those bright blue eyes, put them together with her black hair and fair skin and unusual name, and he knew this was Rose’s niece. He’d last seen her in Cainsville before she ran away from home, which made her about eighteen now.
Eighteen years old. Growing into a young woman. An attractive one, with plenty of fae blood and a penchant for trouble. Yes, Seanna was definitely on his do-not-touch list. And now he’d just happened to rescue her from a mugging? He’d written enough romances to know that’s what fate was scripting in this scene. They’d meet now, under these circumstances, and then when she was a more palatable age to him, they’d meet again in Cainsville and he’d look at her very differently.
Forewarned was forearmed. And now he was forewarned.
“You should get yourself to a doctor,” he said as he started to walk away. “You sound as if you cracked a rib.”
“I don’t have any money.”
He should shrug, keep going, and leave her bleeding in an alley. Prove he wasn’t her knight in shining armor, so when they did meet again, her memories of him would be less than rose-tinged.
And yet . . . Well, the sort of romances he wrote were not the sweet kind. He was particularly partial to gothics, and in those, the hero could indeed be an ass. The allure of the bad boy. One look at Seanna—and the former friend who’d just fled—and he suspected she understood that allure all too well.
“You mentioned an aunt,” he said. “I’m sure she’ll take you to a doctor.”
“Then I have to explain how I got beaten up, when she thinks I was working at an all-night coffee shop.”
“Tell her you got mugged leaving work.”
Seanna shook her head. “She won’t buy it, and then she’ll start asking questions about where I work, and she’ll know I lied about the job.”
True. Rose was a sharp one. Having the second sight didn’t help.
He took three twenties from his wallet. “This will cover a visit and antibiotics. Now scram, kiddo.”
She took the money without a word of thanks, no more than she’d thanked him for rescuing her. A girl who thought the world owed her. Which was unfortunate, because it was going to prove her wrong, time and again.
Patrick let Seanna walk on ahead to the mouth of the alley. Whichever way she turned, he’d go the other. She was about to step from the alley when she staggered and grabbed a trashcan, pulling it over with a clatter as she collapsed. She lay on the sidewalk, taking deep and pained breaths. She tried to rise, only to whimper and double over.
Another moment passed, and she glanced at Patrick. “Aren’t you even going to help me?”
Not if he could help it. At least he hadn’t been rude enough to walk straight past her.
“I think I broke that rib,” she said.
“Possibly,” he said.
Another minute of silence. Then, “Could you help me up? Please?”
It was the please that did it. A tough little girl who was, in all likelihood, not nearly as tough as she thought. Or as she’d like.
He walked over and helped her stand.
“Can you just hail me a cab?” she asked. “I can take it from there.”
“I thought you didn’t have any money.”
“I have enough to get me to a doctor.”
At least she didn’t try to squeeze cab fare out of him. He supported her over to a wall and then looked around for a taxi before realizing the impossibility of hailing one at this hour, in this neighborhood. He told her he’d need to call from the pay phone and got about five paces before she let out a yelp, and he turned to see her on the ground again.
He sighed, went back and helped her to her feet.
“On second thought,” she said. “A doctor can’t do much for a broken rib. All I really need is a place to rest and clean up.” She looked up at him, biting her lip and widening her eyes. “You wouldn’t happen to live around here, would you?”
He had to bite his own lip to keep from laughing. Her attempts to look seductive would work so much better without that calculating gleam in her eye. This was her new plan then—to get him to tend her wounds so she could pocket his sixty dollars.
“I do live nearby,” he said. “But I’ll warn you that my wife isn’t at home this week.”
She gave a sly smile. “Good. Then we won’t disturb her.”
“That wasn’t a hint, Seanna. I was letting you know that I’m married. Which means I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart, and I don’t want anything in return. Anything.”
It may have just been his ego, but he swore disappointment flickered across her face.
“Under those circumstances,” he continued, “do you still want to recuperate at my house?”
“Yes, please.”
Seanna Walsh was a mess. And not just because of the beating. That hadn’t been particularly severe. The blood came from her lip, where she’d bitten it, and once she washed up, the facial bruising appeared to be from a single blow. She did seem to have cracked a rib but was breathing fine now. The damage she’d done to herself over the past few years was worse. Far worse.
When Seanna had argued with the boy about drugs, Patrick thought it was probably marijuana. Or perhaps that new drug circulating at parties, the one amusingly called ecstasy. Yet he’d only needed one look at her in a post-bath oversized T-shirt, and he knew the problem ran much deeper. He didn’t dare try recreational pharmaceuticals himself— the effects on fae were unpredictable—but he partied enough to understand the culture and realize that the needle marks on Seanna didn’t come from a medical condition.
Fae blood made humans more susceptible to addiction. Perhaps they sensed something missing in their lives, a mystery about themselves they couldn’t solve, and they took comfort in alcohol and drugs. Or maybe the booze and dope stilled an inner voice that said they were different, that they didn’t quite belong with the boinne-fala. Or perhaps it was simply a facet of being fae, like that part of his own self that he overindulged in his fondness for wine, women and song.
Whatever the reason, it did not mean that every human with fae blood was a roaring drunk or stuck needles in her arm. Some, like the Carews, seemed to have avoided that lifestyle altogether. Those like Rose had a wild side, but it didn’t run to addiction. Or perhaps with the Walshes that predilection was always there, and they fought it by indulging their wild side in pickpocketing and con artistry. The Walshes were a tough bunch. Seanna, though . . . Seanna was different. Not yet out of her teens, she’d already tumbled down the rabbit hole of addiction and lost herself there.
As he tended to her and let her rest in the guest bedroom, he discovered that he felt something for her plight. Not sympathy, because that presumed he understood how she could have fallen so far so fast. No, it was closer to pity, an emotion that always seemed to carry a thin thread of contempt, as if recognizing that the recipient was in a very bad place, but not entirely free of the blame for it. Whatever their faults, the Walshes had strong family ties, and no one could say Seanna had a difficult childhood, particularly not in Cainsville, where no child was as special as those with the old blood. So her situation smacked of—while he hated to be so cruel—weakness.
The more time he spent with her, the more he wondered if he was being too harsh. Perhaps the addiction-prone properties of her fae blood were simply stronger. She did not resume her awkward attempts at seduction, which made him suspect she’d simply presumed he’d expect sex, and rather than wait until he demanded it, she’d taken control and offered. That did speak to strength. An almost animal cunning and strong survival instinct, which he admired.
As he wrote in the back room, listening to Seanna sighing and whimpering in her sleep, he found himself putting fewer and fewer words on the page and instead staring out the window, immersed in his thoughts. Immersed in thoughts of Gwynn.
Seanna was the one. He was certain of it. She fit the profile—or she would in a few years—and the way they’d met suggested the meddling hand of a cosmic matchmaker.
He’d avoided Veronica because he didn’t dare admit he was supposed to father the new Gwynn and had no intention of doing so. Because that made him feel . . .
Guilty, damn it. It made him feel guilty.
He knew Cainsville was in trouble. While extinction didn’t lurk right around the corner, they saw it coming. Fae were not like humans, hearing scientists talk of the dangers of ozone depletion and thinking, “I’ll be dead by then, so who cares?” The fae would not be dead when trouble hit.
If a new Matilda was coming, having a Gwynn would help. Without one, it would be like with Lady Fairfax—Arawn would swoop in and snatch her up. Patrick knew the local Cŵn Annwn well enough to predict that.
The elders wouldn’t understand why Patrick was so resistant to the idea of siring Gwynn. It wasn’t as if he’d be expected to raise the boy. There could be a financial obligation, if the mother knew who’d fathered the boy, but Patrick certainly had the funds to support a child.
The korrigan was right—he didn’t want the responsibility. That was all there was to it. Responsibilities came with attachments, and attachments, as Patrick well knew, only led to pain.
But did he have the right to say he wouldn’t even lend his seed to the cause of saving his people? Yes, he had the right to refuse. But should he? Putting Cainsville and the Tylwyth Teg aside, weren’t his own survival instincts better honed than that? True, if Cainsville fell, he could move on—he had before. But even if he wasn’t particularly fond of living in the town, he appreciated having it there, for sanctuary and an energy recharge when he needed it.
By the time Seanna awoke, it was the dinner hour. He picked up takeout, and they ate, and she talked, opening up a little about her hopes and dreams. They were silly hopes and dreams, not unlike the ones he’d heard from so many young women. Rather underwhelming, and there was a part of him that wanted to shake her and say, “You can do more.” You can be more. She wanted an apartment. She wanted a puppy. She wanted a job. Someday, she might even finish high school, because it would make her aunt happy. They were the dreams of a child, covering the basic needs of a human—shelter, food and love, if only from an pet. Sad and pathetic fantasies, and as she talked he realized . . .
Did he even dare put it into words? Hardly. It was too far outside the realm of his experience. No, that was a lie. It was too far outside the realm of his current personae, of the life he’d crafted for himself.
What if he accepted that she would be the mother of Gwynn, of his child, at some future—hopefully distant future—point in time? While she was in no way a suitable parent, she could be, and he could help with that. Tackle the addiction. Get her a job and an apartment. Buy her a damned puppy if that helped. He was sure Rose had done her best, but she wasn’t much older herself. Perhaps what Seanna needed was a fairy godfather.
He sputtered a laugh at the thought, making Seanna ask what was so funny, a guarded look in her eyes that said she suspected mockery. He talked her hackles down and then brought wine up from the cellar. Fae wine, very hard to come by in the modern world,
which was why he usually made do with decent boinne-fala vintages. Yet he always kept a couple of bottles with him. He poured her barely a shot, teasing that was enough, given she was underage. It would be enough. Not to intoxicate her but, well, there were different sorts of intoxication, and fae wine heightened the senses, better connected one with the surrounding world. It might satisfy a need in Seanna and ease her addiction. Which meant, he supposed, that he’d already made up his mind on the matter.
Seanna would be his new project. The Eliza to his Henry Higgins. She ought to be at least seven years older before she attempted motherhood, which left plenty of time for gradual changes. He’d do this right, from start to finish, no rushing through it, no half measures, no wandering off when he tired of the hobby.
They drank the fairy wine, and they talked, and he lit the fireplace, which seemed to please her in a childlike way. Then he wrote for a while as she listened to music on her Walkman. He’d already agreed to let her spend the night—in the guest room—and he’d drive her back to her aunt’s in the morning.
Near midnight, he relented on the alcohol and allowed her to select wine from the basement, hiding his amusement when she brought up the bottle with the fanciest label . . . the cheapest in the collection. She opened it in the kitchen and poured them each half a glass, as per his instructions. Then they talked some more, as he sought to get a sense of his first step: concentrate solely on the addiction or get her back into school while she battled those demons.
This would not be a small project, but it was the right one. And he was the right person to tackle it.
That night, Patrick slept even more poorly than he had with the Gwynn-vision. At least then he’d managed to yank himself out of the nightmare. That night, the visions from both the korrigan and his book looped endlessly in scattered and frenzied fragments.
When he finally did wake, sunlight streamed through the window and he stared at it, wondering why he hadn’t drawn the blinds the night before. He was very careful about that—a basic security measure, particularly when the bed was not your own. But all the blinds were open and . . .
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