Cruel Fate

by Kelley Armstrong

  We cut through the passage beside Grace’s building. I showed Todd the tiny park with its chimera fence. I did not show him the gargoyle hidden behind it. That was Gabriel’s gargoyle, cast in his childhood likeness after he won the annual May Day contest to find all the town’s gargoyles. Such a scavenger hunt might sound easy enough…except the gargoyles were sprinkled with pixie dust, appearing and disappearing, depending on the day, the season, the lighting, and so on. No child has found them all since Gabriel. I’ve only gotten two-thirds.

  TC left us at the diner and began cleaning himself, as if expecting nothing. I pushed open the door, and there were exactly two seconds of dead silence, followed by a sudden bustle of movement and conversation, as everyone jumped to cover the fact they’d gone quiet.

  I counted five elders, seated at three tables. All of them motioned for us to join them. Choosing was a political minefield; one I traversed with relish because the mines I set off didn’t touch me at all. I was Matilda. Mallt-y-Dydd. Matilda of the Day. Matilda of the Tylwyth Teg. The living embodiment of the original, my very distant ancestor whose memories and gifts I held. As long as I lived in Cainsville, I granted the fae power by my very presence. I fed the local ley lines, which cleansed the elements—air and water and earth—that fed the fae’s own powers. Of course, I’d be even more useful if they could claim my full favor, but I embraced both sides of Matilda, also helping the Cwˆn Annwn as Mallt-y-Nos, Matilda of the Night, Matilda of the Hunt.

  Even if I came to the diner alone, they’d vie for my attention. They’d do the same with Gabriel, as the embodiment of Gwynn ap Nudd, legendary king of the fae. We were as close to royalty as you could get, and we exploited that to our full benefit. We were fae—they expected no less of us.

  My first choice would be Veronica, my personal favorite and someone I’d gladly dine with, politics aside. Yet of the five fae there, only one was part of the inner group. He sat by himself, as always. He was also the only elder who didn’t look like a senior citizen. His glamour placed him close to my age. With longish dark hair, a sharp triangular face, and a fashionable amount of beard scruff, he looked like the stereotypical coffee-shop hipster working on his great American novel. He even sat in the front corner—the best seat in the house—typing on his laptop.

  I could snub Patrick. I would, too, if I had cause, and God knows, he almost always gave me cause. Being honest, though, if I had to choose the elder after Veronica whose company I enjoyed most, it would be Patrick. I’d just never tell him that.

  I didn’t actually sit down with him. That’d be too obvious. Instead, I headed for the table behind his, but as we passed, I paused as if ready to introduce Todd. Patrick lifted his empty coffee mug. Patrick is a bòcan. Do good deeds for him, and he repays them, just as quickly as he repays bad ones. If I wanted to curry favor, I’d have walked in and filled that mug without him asking. When he lifted it today, I arched my brows and continued walking.

  He caught my arm. “I’m joking,” he said and set the mug down.

  When he got to his feet, I tensed and calculated our quid pro quo balance, in case I’d unexpectedly tipped it out of my favor, and he was about to shun me by leaving. Instead, he extended a hand to Todd. This would, in any other circumstance, be the obvious reason for rising—to greet a newcomer. Yet fae don’t do that, not in Cainsville.

  “Patrick,” he said as he shook Todd’s hand. Then he even tugged over a chair from the next table. It seemed like the polite move, but I knew what he was really doing—making it harder for me to keep walking to another table.

  I lowered myself to the new chair and let Todd take the other. The server hurried over, and we placed our order. When she was gone, I glanced about the diner. There was only one table of human patrons—Dr. Webster and her wife—and they were in the opposite corner. Safe enough.

  “Patrick is Gabriel’s father,” I said.

  Todd knew Gabriel’s father was fae, so he only said, “Ah,” and nodded, not the least perplexed by the fact that Patrick looked younger than his son.

  “He’s a hobgoblin,” I said.

  Patrick sighed. “Is that how you’re going to start introducing us, Liv?”

  “Sorry.” I looked at Todd. “He prefers bòcan. Hobgoblin sounds like an ugly little green man, which he’s not. Even without his glamour, he’s full-sized.”

  I got a glare from Patrick for that. He was sensitive about his non-glamour shape. Most fae looked like supermodel versions of humans—tall, lithe and attractive with a faint glow that only added to their beauty. Patrick’s was one of the least conventional. It was what humans would associate with the “green man” of folklore, which made sense since some of that lore also referred to the green men as hobgoblins. Humans do get it right some of the time.

  “What I meant,” Patrick said, “is introducing us as our fae type. Doesn’t that strike you as a tad racist, Liv?”

  “Not at all. Forewarned is forearmed.” I looked at Todd. “Hobgoblins—or bòcan—are what you might call karma fae. Do unto them as you’d have them do unto you.”

  “A fact which your daughter would do well to bear in mind,” Patrick murmured to Todd.

  “I’m sure Liv has this under control,” Todd said, as he took his milkshake from the server.

  Patrick only grumbled under his breath. It was a good-natured grumble, though, and Todd scored a point with that one. Patrick might claim to like sycophants, but he had no patience with them. Anyone who kowtowed to him earned only his disdain and, worse, bored him.

  I took the saucer of cream out for TC. When I returned, Patrick was saying to Todd, “So how’s life on the outside?”

  “Better than life on the inside.”

  “I can imagine.” Patrick shut his laptop and pushed it aside. “Which reminds me, at some point, I’d love to talk to you, as a reference.” He gave me a quick look. “Not now. Whenever is convenient. I have a character in my new novel that spent ten years in prison, and I would love a…” He pursed his lips. “Normally, I’d say ‘professional opinion,’ but that seems wrong here.”

  Todd laughed softly. “I believe I do qualify as a professional convict. It’s the only thing I am an expert in these days. So no offense taken. I’d be happy to read it over. You’re writing a book?”

  “He’s written a lot of them,” I said. “Even published some.”

  “You’re a novelist?” Todd perked up. “Liv never mentioned that. What do you write?”

  “Paranormal romance,” I said. “Not your cup of tea, I’m sure.”

  “I’ve read those. Paranormal romance. Historical romance. Not big on contemporary romance, but I like the others.” He caught my look. “Are you judging me for reading romance?”

  “Yep, she’s totally judging you,” Patrick said. “Our Liv is something of a literary snob.”

  I wasn’t. I just played the part to needle Patrick. I’d actually read about half of his books. I liked them, in spite of myself. Not that I told him how many I’d read. I doled out my praise as needed. Every six months or so, I’d say, “Oh, I read another one of yours. It was pretty good.” That bought me more goodwill than a hundred refills of his coffee mug. If I admitted I’d read more, it’d dilute the effect.

  “I like romance,” I said. “Romantic suspense is more my style, but I read as much of that as I do mystery, and I expect a romantic subplot in my mysteries and thrillers. I just didn’t think it’d be your thing.”

  “Because I’m a guy,” Todd said. “Sexist.”

  “Incredibly sexist,” Patrick said. “We’re disappointed in you, Liv.”

  “I’m not saying guys wouldn’t enjoy romance. They just don’t usually pick it up.”

  “They do if they’re in prison,” Todd said. “You read what’s on the shelf. Romance is one of the most popular genres, and I don’t just mean the ones with the hot stuff. I like paranormal romance. It was a very welcome break from my reality.” He glanced at Patrick. “Is that what this new book is?”


  “No. The market for those is cooling, and I’m ready to move on. It was fun, but it’s time for a change. My new one is what I’d call gothic mystery, contemporary, with a—”

  A siren wailed outside. My head shot up. Patrick’s brow furrowed, and everyone in the diner turned toward the sound with a frown.

  “Is that a police siren?” Patrick said.

  It very clearly was, but I understood his confusion. We don’t hear police sirens in Cainsville. Local crime was nearly nonexistent. Ironic, given that Cainsville was home to the Walshes. Let’s just say that despite the fact that he was a lawyer known for his “creative” defense strategies, Gabriel was actually the white sheep of the Walsh family. His family wasn’t alone in its loose adherence to ethics. Cainsville was a town full of fae-blood humans.

  Yet the Walshes—and presumably others—had a strict code when it came to their criminal endeavors. Don’t shit in your backyard. It wasn’t about avoiding prosecution. It was a recognition—equally fae in nature—that you don’t cheat those you care about. You don’t blackmail family. You don’t con friends. You don’t pickpocket neighbors. The outside world was fair game. But not here. Never here.

  While there was little need for a police department, of course we had one. And if we saw one of the two local PD cars speeding up in our rearview mirror, we pulled over. No sirens or lights required.

  So hearing that noise, everyone frowned in confusion. As the sound drew closer, I leaned backward to look out the window, and sure enough, a police car ripped along Main Street, lights flashing.

  On the sidewalk, a trio of preschoolers turned to gape. One little girl clapped and bounced, as if it were a surprise parade. Her sitter—an elder—put a hand on her shoulder and quickly steered the children down the passage to the park.

  The state police car pulled up in front of the diner. That was when I noticed Todd, his face pale, hand clasped tight around his milkshake glass.

  “Dad?” I said.

  He shot me a smile, but it was his reflexive one, his eyes empty. “Hmm?”

  I wanted to say, “It’s okay,” or “They’re not here for you,” but that would be like reassuring an elderly parent succumbing to dementia. He wasn’t honestly thinking those sirens were for him. He knew better. The response was as reflexive as that smile. It would remind him of his arrest.

  No, they hadn’t used sirens when they arrested him. I remembered the front door crashing in, men with guns storming through. Monsters, I’d thought at the time. Armed monsters in black dragging my parents away forever.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and shuddered.

  All better now. He’s here. It wasn’t forever.

  That look on my father’s face wasn’t bad memories. It was current fear. Irrational but understandable. The fear that this was all a mistake. That they would find some loophole to drag him back to prison. He knew that wouldn’t happen, but hearing these sirens would still twist his stomach.

  The doors opened. Todd lifted his milkshake and took a long drink, his gaze straight ahead.

  “Dr. Webster?” the first officer through the door called.

  My father relaxed. I did, too, because, yes, I knew the courts couldn’t overturn his release, but that didn’t keep me from having nightmares about that exact scenario.

  The young officer spotted the doctor in the back corner, and he hurried over. When he spoke to her, his voice resonated through the silent diner.

  “We couldn’t reach you,” the officer said. “You’re the local coroner, right?”

  She rose. “Yes, of course.” She checked her cell phone and winced. “Sorry. I had it on vibrate. Is there a problem?”

  “We have a body a few miles outside town. Our coroner is off today, and we can’t reach him. We were told to come get you.”

  Dr. Webster picked up her jacket and purse. “I’ll need to get my bag. I can meet you there.”

  “Better wear boots. Body’s back in the woods. Guy’s been there a while.”

  She paused. “I know there’s a Native American burial ground in the area. If it’s possible the body came from there, you’ll need to make more calls, and while I can attend, I shouldn’t touch the body.”

  “Nah, it’s not that old. Maybe twenty years. Looks like murder. That or an animal attack. Vicious, either way.”

  At a throat clearing from Dr. Webster’s wife, both the doctor and the officer stopped and looked around, realizing they were broadcasting to an audience…who might not want the gory details with their afternoon tea.

  I glanced at Todd, but he was fussing with his new phone, as if paying no attention to the scene unfolding. Not wanting to look over, I suspected, in case he was recognized.

  The officer left. As Dr. Webster crossed the restaurant, she suddenly picked up speed, hurrying to the door and flinging it open.

  “You didn’t tell me where it was,” she called after the officer.

  “Oh, right,” the reply came. “Off Willow Creek Road. Down near the end. You’ll see the cars.”

  Willow Creek? Did he say…?

  Yes, but I must be misremembering. That couldn’t be…

  I glanced at Todd. His head had jerked up, blood draining from his face.

  Willow Creek Road. A long-buried corpse found in the forest, with signs of a brutal attack.

  Twenty-four years ago, my father had murdered serial killer Greg Kirkman…in the forest off Willow Creek Road.

  Seven

  Olivia

  The body found could not be Greg Kirkman. The sheer coincidence made it impossible—one day after Todd was acquitted and released, the body of his one actual victim turns up? I had just been thinking about my anxiety dreams, and that was what this seemed like: the manifestation of my nightmare. The one way Todd could actually end up back in jail. That should mean I was fast asleep in bed, and any moment now, Gabriel would rouse me, murmuring, “You’re having a nightmare.”

  Gabriel did not wake me.

  I wasn’t asleep.

  Therefore, it was coincidence. Some unrelated body had turned up in the same rough geographic area. The officer said it wasn’t old enough to come from the nearby Native American burial site, but he was hardly an expert. Or it wasn’t that old. A twenty-year-old corpse should have skeletonized by now.

  Yet I couldn’t help thinking of that omen.

  One for sorrow…

  I shook that off as Todd and I headed back to the house. We’d left right after the doctor, making our excuses and hurrying out. We hadn’t said a word since. Then, as we walked down my road, I stopped suddenly and turned to Todd.

  “The Cwˆn Annwn took the body, right?” I said.

  He nodded.

  “So, it can’t be him,” I said. “He wasn’t buried there.”

  “I don’t know where they took him. They just said they’d look after it.”

  “We need to speak to Ioan.”

  I didn’t call Ioan. I could have. Not every fae in Cainsville had a cell phone. They were like actual senior citizens, some embracing modern technology, some tolerating it, and some refusing to adapt while muttering about the evils of the modern world. The Cwˆn Annwn were different. They’d assimilated more than the Tylwyth Teg, and it would be a rare Huntsman who didn’t own a phone…and a laptop…and probably a tablet, too.

  This didn’t seem a safe conversation to have by phone, though, so we were on our way to Ioan’s place. I did call Gabriel. I didn’t need to tell him what I was afraid of. As soon as I said what had been found and where, he knew my concern. I told him where we were going, and he said he’d get more details from his contacts in the state police.

  Ioan lived northwest of the city, which was the same direction as Cainsville, but closer to Chicago, where he ran a security firm. The Cwˆn Annwn made their living honestly. Their mission as Huntsmen was one of justice, and so their ethical standards were the polar opposite of normal fae. They went out of their way to emphasize that, to make the distinction clear. We are not fae. Nope, not at all.
We have standards.

  So it was both ironic and telling that Ioan’s own son—Ricky’s father—ran the Satan’s Saints. For bikers, the club had a surprisingly strong ethical code. They wouldn’t enter the sex trade. They avoided trouble with other gangs. They had zero tolerance for domestic violence. Yet they made at least half their money through the sale of guns and drugs. They weren’t actual saints. In that, you could see the Cwˆn Annwn mingling with older strains of fae blood. A strict code of rules and ethics…which could be broken, within those limits, to earn a living and protect themselves.

  Before I left Cainsville, I’d texted Ioan to say I wanted to speak to him, and that it was a “matter of security,” which wouldn’t be incriminating, given what he did for a living. He’d prefer to discuss it at his house, so that’s where we went. We were still coming down his rural road when I spotted his AMG ahead and the estate gates swinging open.

  “That was fast,” Todd said.

  “I come by my speed-demon ways honestly,” I said. “Cwˆn Annwn blood.”

  He chuckled. “Can’t say speeding was ever my problem, but I understand the appeal.”

  Despite his laugh, his body stayed tight, as it had been through the drive. Now his gaze followed that car as it disappeared into the drive.

  “Have you met Ioan since that first time?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I can’t say for sure.”

  I glanced over, frowning.

  “When I saw him, he was a guy on a flaming horse,” Todd said. “Green cloak. Hood pulled up. The only things visible under that hood were red eyes.” A more strained chuckle. “I’m guessing that’s not how he goes to work in the morning.”

  “Right. Sorry. I forgot you would have seen him as a Huntsman. He’s a little less intimidating in person.”

  I turned into the drive. Ioan must have seen me down the road. He’d pulled into the garage at the top of the lane, leaving the door open as he came out to see me. Brenin—the lead cwˆn—appeared from behind the garage.