But the only intriguing case on last night’s scanner came from a man who’d reported a disappearing hitchhiker. A preposterous story from someone who failed to recognize a hoary urban legend. Yet that was the part that intrigued Gabriel. He’d picked up enough from the scanner conversation to know the man seemed to be a sober middle-aged professional. Why on earth would he risk his reputation reporting an obviously fabricated story?
Intriguing, yes, but it wouldn’t be enough for Olivia. He needed—
“Good morning, Gabriel.”
His office door swung open. In walked a man who looked about Olivia’s age. Dark hair, worn somewhere between hipster and bohemian. Sharp eyes, sharp cheekbones, sharp chin. He bore a broad grin and two cardboard cups of coffee, the latter of which he deposited on Gabriel’s desk, along with a creamer, milk, sugar and sweetener.
“Someday, you’re going to tell me how you like your coffee,” Patrick said.
“Delivered by my admin assistant.” Gabriel shot a glower out the open door.
“Lydia’s not there. She slipped out to turn off her car alarm. Seems to be on the fritz.”
“You set off her car alarm so you could sneak into my office?”
“I wouldn’t need to if you’d tell her that I’m welcome to visit anytime I like.” Patrick thumped into a chair. “That would be the wise thing to do, Gabriel. I’m on my best behavior with her, for your sake. That won’t last, and then I’ll be forced to resort to type.”
By “type” he meant fae type. Patrick was a bòcan. Better known as a hobgoblin, though Patrick hated the term. It conjured up images of twisted goblin-like creatures. A bòcan was a fae trickster, and like all tricksters, Patrick had an air of the passive-aggressive about him. Treat him well, and he’d return the favor. Mistreat him—or fail to pay him his perceived due—and one would see his less generous side.
Gabriel wasn’t worried about offending Patrick. Following Olivia’s example, he’d learned how far he could push while taking advantage of the fact that Patrick liked to be on their good side. As for why Patrick wanted to be there, that situation was at the root of Gabriel’s fractured relationship with Olivia and therefore not something he wished to consider. Suffice to say the circumstances made Gabriel a valuable ally. So he took the coffee and said, “I appreciate you stopping by, Patrick, but I’m very busy—”
“So I see.”
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning. My appointments begin at nine—”
“Then you have a half an hour for me. And I’m teasing you about not being busy, Gabriel. I know you are. Particularly with Liv jaunting off with biker-boy.”
“His name is Ricky. Please show him some respect.”
“I find it hard to respect anyone who goes by Ricky.”
Gabriel walked to the door. “I’ll see you out.”
“Fine, I won’t insult young Mr. Gallagher. You do realize he’s the competition, right?”
Gabriel tensed. “Olivia and I are not—”
“I wasn’t talking about Liv. But, since that’s where your mind went, let’s follow it. That conversation is well overdue, and I’m glad to hear you acknowledge that you do see Ricky as a rival in that regard.”
“I believe I was saying he is not.”
“Because he’s no competition for you? Agreed. Ricky and Liv, while a darling couple—”
“I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
Patrick sighed. “Fine. We’ll drop the subject and move on to the point of my visit.”
“There’s a point?” Gabriel murmured. “That’s new.”
“Ouch, you’ve been hanging around Liv too long. There has been a reason for all my recent visits, Gabriel. We call it socializing.”
“To which I do not see a purpose. But you said there was an actual point to this particular visit?”
“I’ve brought you a case.”
“The very thing I do not need, having just said that my roster is full.”
“This one’s different. This one is interesting.”
Gabriel hesitated just a heartbeat. Then he picked up a file folder and leafed through the contents. “Yes, well, given that I have quite enough—”
“You’re bored.”
“I am far too busy to be bored.”
“Nope, you’re not. Liv’s gone, and you’re bored.”
“With Olivia gone, I believe the proper word would be resting.”
“Ha. No, sorry. After she left, I bet you had exactly twelve hours of mild relief that the rollercoaster had stopped. Then boredom settled in. You’re missing her, too, but it’s easier to say you’re bored, so we’ll go with that. So I have brought you a case. A ghost story.”
Gabriel closed the folder and laid his fingertips on it.
“Ah, that got your attention,” Patrick said.
“Only because I cannot imagine how a ghost could pay my rates.”
Patrick sipped his coffee and settled in his chair. “Picture the scene. It’s a dark and stormy night.”
“If that’s how you start your stories, it’s a wonder you sell any books at all.”
“It’s not how I start them, which you would know if you read my books.”
“I scarcely have time to eat, let alone read.”
“Oh? I seem to recall a boy who would eat while reading. And walk while reading. It’s a miracle you survived childhood without getting hit by a car, your nose stuck in some book. You can’t tell me you don’t read fiction.”
“Not the sort you write.”
“Ouch.”
“If you have a story to tell, please provide me the CliffsNotes version. My first client arrives in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine. Dark and stormy night, yada yada. Guy picks up a hitchhiker by the side of the road and—”
“And she disappears. Whereupon the man returns home to discover his wife drying their wet dog in the microwave, except it isn’t a Chihuahua at all, but a giant rat.”
“You know your urban legends.”
“As should you, given that you are a writer of supernatural fiction and a scholar of folklore. Yes, I heard that story on the police scanner last night. It is remarkable only for its sheer ridiculousness. I suppose she was wearing white, too.”
“Actually, yes. But—”
“And asked to be dropped off near a cemetery?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then this ghost lacks proper appreciation for the lore. I am disappointed.”
“That sounds remarkably like sarcasm.”
“Never.” Gabriel took the folder to the cabinet and exchanged it for another. “Even if there were a mystery here, Patrick, there is not a case. Not a paying client. Except, perhaps, work for a good divorce attorney.”
“Divorce attorney?”
Gabriel set the new file on the desk and opened it. “A middle-aged man in a luxury vehicle picks up a presumably attractive young woman on a rainy night? Drives her well off the beaten track? That’s almost a cliché in itself. If he has a wife, she should be in the market for a divorce lawyer, which I am not. I wouldn’t say she even requires a particularly good lawyer, considering her husband was foolish enough to report the encounter. That alone suggests—”
“Supernatural forces at work?”
“I was going to say ‘abject stupidity.’”
Patrick rose and perched on the desk instead. “You have a point, though. A very good one. Why would he report it? He is married, by the way. And the hitchhiker was young and, as you say, presumably attractive. Any man with a lick of sense would make up some story about getting lost in the rain and leave it at that.”
“Which only means he has not a lick of sense.”
“He’s a partner at one of the city’s leading architectural firms. He has his master’s in that plus an MBA to manage the business end. Two post-grad degrees. Not a stupid man. His wife is a surgeon. Not a stupid woman, and not one who’d fail to miss the implications of his hitchhiker escapade. So we have a mystery. A
s for the client, that’d be me. This story has sparked a future book plot, and I’d like to hire you to help me with the research.”
“Olivia is the investigator.”
“Until you hired her, you did all your investigating yourself. You enjoy it.”
“What I enjoy is having an actual client, which is about more than money. A case for me must pay well and foster my reputation.”
“And interest you.”
“That’s hardly a factor—”
“Liar. You don’t need the money. You don’t need the rep boost. What you need is what has been lacking for nearly two weeks. Something you’ve grown very accustomed to having in your life.”
Gabriel started leafing through the file. “Olivia will be back in a couple of days.”
“Again, I wasn’t talking about Liv. Interesting how your mind keeps going there.” Patrick held up a hand against Gabriel’s protest. “I was going to say that you’ve grown accustomed to having exciting cases. But, now that you mention it, there is someone who likes this type of case even more than you do.”
Gabriel glanced up from the file.
“Ah, there we go,” Patrick said. “I have your attention now.”
“No, you have less than five minutes of my time now.”
“Liv comes back in what, two, three days? I’m sure you know the hours, too, but we won’t get into that. Point is, she’d love this case. You know she would. Investigating the report of an urban legend? It’d amuse the hell out of her.”
“I really don’t have time,” Gabriel said, but even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice. He thought of telling Olivia about this case.
Hitchhiking ghost? Seriously?
Yes, it’s ridiculous. I know.
Ridiculously awesome. Let me at it.
Patrick hopped off the desk. “When do you finish work?”
“I—”
“Let me rephrase that. When do your office hours conclude, and you begin the portion of the day we call ‘quitting time’ and you call ‘more-work time’?”
“Five, but—”
“Then I will return at five with details. I’ll play Liv for you today. I’ll gather everything I can find online, and we’ll discuss it over dinner. This case isn’t going away. I’ll do the scut work, and you can have a package ready for Liv when she returns.”
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Olivia
Tonight I would watch a man die for his crimes. I would hunt him down and let a pack of giant black hounds rip him to death and send his soul to the afterlife, and I would trust that he had done something to deserve it.
I was struggling with that concept.
Not the part where I’d hunt him or even watch him die. I’d seen a man torn apart by a cŵn before, and while I didn’t intend to closely observe the process, I did not have an issue with the overall idea of it. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.
I believed in the Cŵn Annwn, in their purpose on earth. The Welsh Wild Hunt, tasked with wreaking vengeance on humans who murder those with fae blood. Did those crimes deserve such a fate? Sometimes. Other times, though, it was indeed rough justice. But justice it was. When you take a life—intentionally and maliciously—you must accept that you may receive the same in return.
My problem with tonight’s Hunt? The part where I didn’t know what our quarry had actually done.
I had chosen not to know. I’d seen that as purpose. Resolution. Faith, too, which doesn’t come easily to me. I trusted that the Cŵn Annwn were justified in their actions, and so for my first Hunt, I would prove that by not asking for details.
Yeah . . .
A noble sentiment, which lasted only until the moment of truth loomed.
I sat on my horse, leaning forward, hand rubbing her neck, trying to calm my nerves with her warmth. She felt those nerves, though, and her left ear twitched.
“Dwi'n iawn, Rhyddhad,” I said, reassuring her I was okay.
A soft whinny suggested I might be lying.
Rhyddhad looked like a regular horse—a young gray mare—just as the cŵns looked like regular hounds. They were, in their way. That is, they weren’t shape-shifting humanoid fae. But they were fae beasts, and they understood us better than mortal ones.
Rhyddhad and I were on an empty stretch of country road, outside Chicago. Waiting for our quarry to arrive.
The Hunt must take place in a forest. That was traditionally the domain of the Cŵn Annwn, and back in ancient Wales, the restriction had been no restriction at all as people passed through forest regularly. It was trickier in the modern world. And in Chicago? A city of three million people . . . let’s just say that it was a good thing the local Cŵn Annwn pack had been here for centuries, with time to adjust and improvise. Time to learn how to get even the most urban-dwelling killer to a patch of woods.
It helped, too, that they only needed to conduct a proper Hunt a few times a year. That meant plenty of time to use their tricks—both human and supernatural—to get their prey where they wanted him.
This time, they were lucky—their target worked in Chicago but lived outside it. He passed daily along this wooded road, and he often drove past dark.
It’d been almost a week ago when Ioan—leader of the local Cŵn Annwn—came to me and said, “We have one. Are you ready?”
I was. There wasn’t any doubt of that. I was the new Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Hunt. I had accepted that role, and along with it, I accepted this responsibility.
When headlights bobbed down the empty road, hooves tapped across the pavement, a rider coming to my side, a cŵn loping beside him, her tongue lolling.
“Looks like we have a winner,” Ricky said as he reined in. “Dark sedan headed this way, right on time.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t his usual grin. He was on edge, too, and his horse—Tywysog Du—shook his head, breath streaming in the cool spring air.
“We doing this?” he said.
“I guess so.”
He inched Tywysog Du closer and reached to squeeze my arm. Ricky Gallagher. Former lover, current best friend—a feat I was still amazed we’d managed. It took work, but it was important to both of us, and six months later, we were settled into the new relationship.
This would be Ricky’s first Hunt, too. The first time we fully inhabited our ancient roles—me as Matilda and him as Arawn, Lord of the Otherworld, legendary king of the Cŵn Annwn. There was a third party in this configuration. Gwynn ap Nudd, even more legendary king of the fae, the Tylwyth Teg. But Gabriel had no place here. Not tonight.
“Is that the car?” Ioan asked, his quiet voice traveling through the silence.
Another of the Cŵn Annwn—Meic—peered down the road with binoculars. Yes, just regular binoculars. The Huntsmen were blessed with near-perfect night vision, but not bionic sight, and unlike most fae, they embraced human tech.
“It’s definitely a dark sedan,” Meic said. “Could be an Audi . . .”
“You realize you have an expert, right?” Ricky called to him.
Ioan chuckled and waved for Meic to bring the binoculars to me.
My Cŵn Annwn blood gave me decent night vision, but it wasn’t like theirs, and I had to squint to make out the oncoming vehicle.
“We’ve got a BMW,” I said, as it came over a dip a hundred feet away.
I only needed to nudge Rhyddhad. She knew what that meant: get the hell away from the roadside before some poor stranger goes into a tailspin seeing a pack of giant hounds and horsemen.
Human folklore said that if you spotted the Hunt, you’d die. That wasn’t exactly true. Yes, if you spotted them, and they were there for you, I’d suggest an emergency call to check your life insurance policy. But for any culture with Wild Hunt folklore, the fear of them was ingrained, and the Cŵn Annwn preferred not to send innocent humans into mindless panic, especially when they were behind the wheel of a motor vehicle.
So th
e horses and hounds headed into the field, not unlike city kids playing road hockey when someone called “Car!”
I watched the vehicle as it passed and . . . “Shit!”
There was the dark blue Audi we were waiting for—a few car lengths behind the BMW.
“Brenin!” Ioan shouted, alerting the alpha cŵn.
The hound whipped around, but he was too far from the road. The closest to it was Ricky’s cŵn, Lloergan. She suffered from old injuries, meaning she hadn’t kept up when we bolted for the field.
“Lloe?” Ricky called, but she was already veering as Brenin barked a command.
Lloergan ran back to the road. The BMW was gone, the Audi coming fast. The cŵn wasn’t going to make it. And if she did . . .
Lloergan leapt onto the road right in front of the Audi. I shouted, “No!” as the car went into a spin.
“I can’t see Lloe,” I whispered, leaning over Rhyddhad’s neck. “Where’s . . . ?”
I spotted her then . . . lying on the road.
Ricky started forward, but Ioan cut him off, saying, “No.”
Ricky let out a growl, and his horse stamped.
“She’s getting up,” I said as I peered through the binoculars. “She’s limping, though.”
Ricky cursed under his breath. Tywysog Du continued stamping.
“Wait,” Ioan said. “Just wait.”
The Audi had stopped spinning. The BMW driver either didn’t notice what happened behind him or pretended he didn’t, as the car’s rear lights faded into the night.
The Audi driver’s door opened. A man stepped out. As soon as he saw Lloergan, she toppled over.
The man looked around, as if assessing his chances of getting back into his vehicle and taking off. Not exactly a choice that warranted the death penalty, but if I was looking for signs that this guy was an asshole, I could take this.
He gave Lloergan only a cursory glance. Then he bent to examine the front end of his car.
Yep, definitely an asshole.
Portents Page 29