On the next page, you'll find an excerpt from Omens--the scene where Olivia first meets Gabriel.
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Excerpt from Omens
I couldn't shake that sense of something creeping along behind me. Finally I spun. There was something there--a black shape crouched on the fence of the now-distant park. A chill crept up my spine and I squinted. The shape lengthened, stretching until it became the black cat, languidly arching its back, then settling in on the fence post to watch me.
The urge to run tingled down my legs. Instead, I forced myself back toward the cat. It just sat there, watching me.
"If you're looking for handouts, this"--I waggled Grace's bag--"is not kitty food."
The cat yawned and stretched again before settling back on its perch. Something passed overhead and the cat sprang up so fast I stumbled back. It gave me a scornful glare, then looked up into the sky. I followed its gaze to see what looked like a crow, soaring high overhead.
"A little out of your reach," I said to the cat.
It ignored me, tail puffed, yellow eyes following the distant bird.
Crow, crow, get out of my sight
Or else I'll eat thy liver and lights
"Great," I muttered. "Just great." I shook my finger at the cat. "You guys really are bad luck."
The clouds overhead shifted, sunlight coming through again. As I headed back to the pathway, I glanced over my shoulder once, but the cat hadn't moved. It just kept staring at that crow, as if hoping it would come lower. If it did, the cat would be in for a surprise. The bird was probably as big as it was.
When I was about halfway down the path, I could make out the Victorian house across the road, the one with the psychic in residence. Again, I saw a face in a window. And two black circles. Binoculars. They pulled back and I smiled to myself. Psychic, my ass. In a town this small, all you needed to pull off that gig was the gift of nosiness.
A cloud moved across the sun again and I looked up. Maybe it would rain after all. That might establish me as a psychic. Look out, lady--
A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn't a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.
"Ms. Taylor-Jones?"
The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought, James has hired someone to find me.
There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit's worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.
Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was--a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn't the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.
My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad. Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That's the only way to get a good read on them. Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn't see through them.
The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.
"Is that better?" he said, his voice deep, tone amused. "You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I'd expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen." Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name--Gabriel Walsh--a Chicago address and the words "Law Firm."
Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn't care to give.
"You work for a lawyer," I said. When one brow arched, I continued, "Whatever your boss--"
"I don't have a boss, Ms. Jones."
He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.
I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.
"Oh," I said.
"A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one."
I glanced up sharply. "You were--?"
"Not her original lawyer, of course." He wasn't old enough for that. "I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately."
"I wouldn't say that's unfortunate at all."
His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.
"I suppose she sent you," I said. "That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her--"
"I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied."
"And now you want to get her back."
"No, I was fired only because she didn't give me time to quit."
"I really do need to be going," I said as I hefted my paper bag. "If you'll excuse--"
"I've come with a business proposition." He turned toward Rowan Street. "There's a coffee shop down the road. The food isn't as good as the diner's, but it's quieter."
He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.
"How did you find me?" I said.
"I had a tip." He waved toward the psychic's house. "Now, about that coffee . . . ?"
I shook my head, said, "Not interested." I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.
"You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . ."
"You'll help me gain control of those assets," I said, still walking. "For a price."
"Fifty percent." He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was, At least he's honest.
"Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren't they?"
"Their families." He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, "The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones."
I laughed. I couldn't help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.
"I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you--"
"No, I'm just taking some time away."
"Oh?" He looked around. "So this is where you usually come on vacation?"
I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan--the one in front of the fire hydrant.
"May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?"
"I know what poverty is."
"Do you? My mistake then."
I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn't me she was looking at.
"Gabriel."
"Grace. I brought you a scone." He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty hand.
How the hell had he done that?
"Fresh from the oven," he said. "Still warm."
Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.
"You two know each other?" I said.
"We're acquainted." Gabriel turned to me. "I've made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you'll take some time to reconsider it."
"I don't need to."
"I think you might."
He
nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.
"You know who I am," I said.
"Maybe." She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. "Don't expect me to feel sorry for you."
I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.
"He said she called him." I waved toward the fortune-teller's house. "Tipped him off about me."
She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. "If you think it was me, say so. Don't beat around the bush. Makes you look weak."
"Okay. So you called him."
"I wouldn't call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire." She pursed her lips. "No, I might. To sue everyone responsible--from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I'd wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he'd just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement."
"So he's an ambulance chaser."
"He's a money chaser, doesn't matter where it comes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn't hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I'm sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt."
"Oh."
"Yes, oh. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He's just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it."
So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.
Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. "Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch."
"You knew . . . ?"
"That you brought me this? Course I did."
"But you thanked--"
"He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one."
"In other words, keep my distance."
"Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet."
Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.
"Huh, looks like we're getting a storm," she said.
She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.
The Puppy Plan
Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it caused serious problems for werewolves, too. Logan had been wandering through the forest behind Stonehaven, goofing off, tramping through the newly fallen snow. At nine, he was a little old for that. Or he considered himself too old for it. But his twin sister Kate had gone into the city with their parents to buy Christmas gifts, so there was no one to see him. And it was new snow. So he wandered about, breaking fresh paths, startling mice and maybe even scooping up a few, like he and Kate used to do when they were kids. Little kids, that is.
As he neared the edge of the property, he noticed the sun dropping over the open road. Time to head back. He was supposed to be in before dark, and, while there was at least an hour left, he hated even skirting the edges of irresponsibility.
It was then, as he turned, that he caught the scent. He stopped in his tracks, lifted his nose and inhaled.
It smelled like a dog, which was weird. With the Pack roaming these woods, other canines steered clear. Once, he and Kate had spotted a fox ambling across the road, and, when it caught their scent, it practically went into spasms before it tore back to its own side.
This definitely smelled like dog, though. That made Logan curious. Okay, most things made Logan curious. He liked learning and discovering. He also liked testing boundaries, though not in the same way as his sister. Kate pushed the ones that would get her into trouble. With Logan, boundaries were about knowledge and exploration. Lately, he'd been testing how close he could get to domestic animals before he startled them.
He walked toward the scent, but it remained faint. Then it was gone. He looked around. He saw the road, and trees and snow. Lots of snow. When he backed up, the smell wafted by on the breeze.
Had a dog passed this way earlier, its tracks now covered in snow?
No. His gut told him that whatever caused this smell was still here, and he paused, analyzing that. Gut feelings were for Kate; Logan preferred fact. He decided that it was the strength of the scent. As faint as it was, it was more than the detritus shed by a passing dog.
That still didn't answer the question of where the dog could possibly be, when all he saw was snow. The forest started ten feet back from the road, the edge too sparse to hide anything bigger than a rabbit.
Maybe it wasn't bigger than a rabbit. Like the one when Uncle Nick took them to visit Vanessa, and they'd been out walking on a busy street and passed a woman with a tiny dog in her purse. The dog freaked, escaped and ran into traffic, followed by Kate, who'd nearly gotten hit catching it. Uncle Nick had decided it was a story their parents really didn't need to hear. Logan agreed. He'd also pointed out to Kate that, while rescuing the dog had been a fine impulse, she'd nearly given the tiny beast a heart attack when she scooped it up, which would have rather undone the point of saving it.
It could be a small dog, then, cowering behind a tree, waiting for Logan to pass. Which meant he should just move along. Except that, well . . . curiosity. He had to see if his theory was right.
As he started through the ditch, snow billowed over the top of his boots. He should have worn snow pants, but, on the first snow last month, he'd declared he was too old for them. The price for maturity, apparently, was wet jeans and snow sliding down the inside of his boots.
His foot hit something buried in the snow. A rock or a root. When he went around it, the smell faded. That's when he decided curiosity wasn't always such a good thing.
He had a good idea what he'd just kicked in the snow. A dog. Or the body of one that was struck by a car and made it into the ditch before dying. He scowled at the thought. Sometimes, you can't avoid hitting an animal on the road, and it isn't safe to try, however much Kate would protest otherwise. But if you did hit a dog, you should at least stop. Help it if you can, and find the owner if it's too late.
He didn't need to see a dead dog. But, when the snow melted, Kate would see it, and that would upset her. A lot. She'd been trying for the past year to convince their parents to let them get a puppy. Reese had dogs growing up, and he said if you raised them from pups, they were fine with the werewolf smell. But werewolves and pets were two things that didn't normally go together, and, with everything else that was going on, this was one time when their normally indulgent parents held fast. Maybe in a year or so. Not now.
Kate didn't need to see the dead dog. Logan would move it deep into the woods on the other side of the road. It wasn't something he wanted to do--at all--but it was something he should and could do, and that's what counted.
He peered up into the sky. The sun had not miraculously stopped dropping, which meant he ought to leave this task until morning, when he could bring a bag. First, he'd check and see how big a one he needed, and if he should bring the toboggan, too.
He returned to the spot where he'd kicked the poor thing, and he bent to scoop out snow. It was light and powdery, easy to move. He shifted the snow off and saw a bag. A canvas one, like the kind potatoes came in. Which meant this wasn't a dog hit by a car. As for what it was . . .
Let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong.
He undid the tie at the top and opened it to see . . .
Logan's stomach clenched so hard he doubled over. Tears prickled as he squeezed his eyes shut, but the image stayed emblazoned there. Two puppies, one on top of the other, the top
one's eyes open, pink tongue sticking out between its tiny teeth.
Logan dropped the bag and scrambled to the road and started pacing, heaving deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Get his temper under control. Everyone said Kate was the one with the temper. Not completely true. His didn't come out nearly as often as hers, but, when it did, it was like a fire in his head and in his stomach, burning through everything.
How could people do this? No, really, how? If they couldn't keep the damned puppies, they could damned well find someone who could or leave them at the goddamned shelter, because this, this was unforgivable. Someone should put them in a bag. Toss them by the roadside like garbage. That's what he'd like to do if he found them, and he didn't care if it was wrong. It was fair.
He paced until he stopped raging. And stopped cursing. Then he rubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath and . . .
Harsh bass boomed from his pocket, making him jump. The opening chords for Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl." Kate's ring tone. She set up everyone's ring tones, an idea she got from Savannah, though his sister's taste in music was somewhat more eclectic.
Logan answered quickly.
"I thought you were staying in the city for dinner," he blurted.
"Dad and I got tired of being out. Mom did, too. She just wouldn't admit it."
He turned his back on the bag.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Sure. Just out walking."
There was a pause. Kate trying to emotion-read him through the phone. That was not, he was aware, the technical term for what she did. There probably wasn't a technical term, because her ability to interpret mood and emotion bordered on the preternatural. But, after a moment, she gave up and said, "I'll join you."
"It's almost dark."
"Which is fine as long as we are together and have our phones. I know the rules, Lo. I even kinda follow them. Oh, and I'll bring your hot chocolate. We picked it up in town. The good stuff from the new coffee place. I'll have to reheat it and put it into a thermos. There was whipped cream, but it melted. I could say I ate it, but that would be gross."
"Uh-huh . . ."
"Does it help if I say I used a spoon?"
"Did you?"
"Where are you? I'll be there in ten."
Logan started to tell her. Then he spun back toward the bag. "No! I'll . . . I'll come there. I was just heading in."
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