Rituals

by Kelley Armstrong

  "That is the stupidest scheme I've ever heard," I said. "One, someone could have ID'd the real body, which would have ruined everything. Two, six months isn't enough time for those who actually worked on the dead woman's case to forget what she looked like."

  "Do you really think anyone gives a shit about some addict who offs herself in an empty building? She was a white chick with dark hair and blue eyes. Close enough. The problem was that, six months later, I was long gone, so this sergeant decided he could swap the photos and leave it at that. Skip the positive ID. I spent years--years--on the run because the asshole who put out the bounty on me figured I bolted. All because that bastard cop couldn't hold up his end of the deal."

  "And Gabriel?"

  Her face screwed up. "What?"

  "His mother left him. At fifteen. She walked away without a word. Without leaving him one penny."

  A dismissive eye roll. "Gabriel could look after himself. He'd already been doing it for years. Not that he ever contributed anything. Just made enough for himself."

  "He was a child," I snarled. "He shouldn't have had to take care of anyone."

  "Why not? Everyone does, eventually. Better to learn that lesson early. And look where it got him." She waved around the office. "A big-shot lawyer. Drives a fancy car. Lives in a fancy apartment. He wouldn't have all this if I'd coddled him."

  "Get out."

  "Oh, so now you want me to leave? Make up your mind, girl."

  I pulled out the gun and pointed it at her head. "Get out now."

  She started to make some sarcastic comment. Then she met my gaze, shut her mouth, and limped out the door.

  --

  When Lydia returned, I was in the bathroom, plucking hairs from Gabriel's brush and putting them into a plastic bag. I emerged, and her gaze traveled from the bag in my hand to the bag on her desk, containing the bloodied tissues.

  "You really think it could be her?" she said.

  "I think I need that answer as fast as I can get it," I said. "I'll pay whatever it takes."

  CHAPTER THREE

  Cook County Jail was about a mile from the office. My car was at home in Cainsville, so I walked to the prison, after texting Gabriel to say I was coming. He usually left his cell in the car, and I was almost there before he replied.

  I met him in the parking lot. "Lydia says your schedule is now appointment-free for the day. Any chance we can work at my place? We need to talk, and I don't want that woman showing up at your office again."

  He paused before opening his car door. "May I ask what she wanted?"

  "We can talk at my place."

  He got in. When my door closed, he cleared his throat and then said, "You're obviously shaken, which means it was more than a stray relative seeking free legal advice. I've mentioned that I faced a false paternity suit before..."

  I burst out laughing, mostly in relief. The paternity suit had been a scam that backfired spectacularly. Anyone who knew Gabriel wouldn't have attempted it. He'd never be careless about anything that could cost him money.

  He continued, "Ah, well, I can assure you, it won't be the first time a relative--real or otherwise--popped from the woodwork hoping for a handout. I'm sure your family has their share of experience with that. And in mine, there are even more empty hands and wild stories intended to fill them. But we can work as well at your house as in the office, and Rose has been asking us to tea. Text, and tell her we'll come at four."

  --

  We drove to my house. Well, it's not actually mine. I'm halfway through a two-month trial run. The elders offered me the Carew house for an excellent price, purportedly because it belonged to my great-great-grandmother and has stood empty for years. The truth is that they're desperate for me to put down roots in Cainsville.

  It's a gorgeous place. A stately Queen Anne with a half tower, forming a window seat in my bedroom. In the past month, I'd been making the house mine. I'd lived in a Cainsville apartment for six months and never even added a throw pillow. Here, I had pillows, art, garden furniture...I still claimed I hadn't made up my mind, but I was feathering this nest as fast as I could.

  We walked in the front door. I kicked off my shoes. Gabriel lined his up on the mat, which he'd bought last week. He might counsel me not to make a decision too hastily, but I wasn't the only one adding the little touches that turned this house into a home.

  Gabriel headed straight to the kitchen to warm up the coffee machine. Even if we don't have coffee right away, he'll make that detour, as if the front door leads directly to the machine. Then he joined me in the parlor, where I'd curled up on the couch. He took the other end.

  I shifted to sit sideways. "There's no easy way to say this. The woman who came to the office claims to be your mother."

  His brows shot up. "She claims that my mother isn't Seanna Walsh? That's a first."

  "This woman says she is Seanna."

  He looked at me, those eerily pale blue eyes fixed on mine, and for a moment that's all I could see--those ice-blue irises ringed with a blue so dark it looked black. Then he laughed, and the sound was so unexpected, I jumped.

  "I don't mean to laugh," he said. "Obviously, you were concerned about how I might react to this impostor. I appreciate that concern, Olivia. And yes, as much as I'd like to say that I don't care--never cared--the truth is that until six months ago this was indeed my greatest fear--that I'd walk into the office one day and Seanna would be sitting there with her hand out. I shouldn't say I was glad to learn she was dead. But I was. It lifted a weight."

  "I don't blame you."

  "My mother is clearly dead," he said. "Dealing with an impersonator will not rattle me. Nor will it resurrect old memories."

  I wanted to leave it at that. Shove it aside until the DNA test came back, and once it was negative, I could breathe a sigh of relief. But Gabriel knew me too well.

  When he saw my expression, he said, "You don't honestly believe there's a chance she is Seanna, do you?"

  "Of course not. I saw the coroner's photos. Yes, this woman looks like her, but she'd need to, in order to pull it off. And her story is preposterous."

  "What is her story?"

  "Oh, some crap about a bargain with a cop." I rose from the sofa and headed for the kitchen. "Do you want coffee? Rose brought over fresh chocolate chip cookies. Your favorite."

  I grabbed two mugs and stuck one under the coffeemaker as I hit the button. I was taking out a plate for the cookies when a form darkened the kitchen doorway, shadow stretching across the sun-dappled floor.

  "What exactly was her story?" he asked.

  "Like I said, some bullshit--"

  "I'd like to hear the whole thing."

  I told him. When I finished, he walked to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair. Then he stiffly lowered himself into it.

  "It's ridiculous," I said, bringing over the coffees, sloshing slightly. I put them down and crossed my arms to hide my shaking hands. "Fake her death to escape a bounty? Not even actually fake it, but only switch photos six months later and expect she'll be legally declared dead? There are a million easier ways to disappear. It's a preposterous scheme."

  "Seanna's always were." He took the coffee but only placed it in front of him. "She was a petty thief who fancied herself a con artist. That was her idea of career aspiration. Unfortunately, she lacked the intelligence--or the patience--to carry out a proper con. This is exactly the sort of thing she'd come up with and then be shocked when the officer didn't hold up his end of the bargain."

  "It isn't her."

  He ran his thumb over the coffee mug handle.

  "It's not," I said.

  "Of course it isn't," he replied, but a little too slowly, his gaze still fixed on his mug. "It can't be."

  He turned the mug. Still didn't take a sip. Just turned it. Then he straightened and took out his phone.

  "We're going to need to deal with it, though," he said. "I don't have time to argue with this woman. We'll jump straight to disproving her claim th
rough a DNA analysis. That will mean you'll need to find some way to collect hers." He caught my look. "You already have it?"

  I didn't answer.

  "You have it, and you've sent it in." He nodded and put his phone away. "Dare I ask how you obtained it?"

  "I shot her."

  His lips twitched. "You..."

  "She pissed me off."

  He choked on a laugh. "I see."

  "She really pissed me off."

  "Dare I ask what she said?"

  He was still smiling, but my cheeks heated, and I walked to the counter to fetch the cookies. "It doesn't matter. She pissed me off, so I shot her in the leg. It was just a graze, but I got enough blood for Lydia to send off for a DNA analysis."

  His smile evaporated. "Lydia was there?"

  "Yes. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking clearly or I'd never have shot someone in front of her. I got Lydia out after that, though, before the woman gave her story."

  He relaxed. "All right, then. The DNA analysis is under way. While I doubt this woman will return to the office today, I will call Lydia with instructions. We'll also need to tell Rose immediately, should this woman attempt to contact her."

  "Do you want to call Rose?"

  "It is a complicated situation, as I'm sure you're aware. I'd like to tell her in person."

  Seanna was the connection between Rose and Gabriel, yet to him, she was the nightmare who didn't deserve the name of mother, while Rose remembered the beloved niece whose life had gone horribly wrong. For Rose, it had been difficult to see the monster her niece had become and not want to say, "But she isn't really like that, it's the fae blood, the drugs, the alcohol..." The one person she can never say that to is Gabriel, because it trivializes his own experience.

  Gabriel sipped his coffee, his gaze fixed on a spot across the kitchen.

  "I have laundry I could fold," I said.

  "If you're offering me time alone, just say so, Olivia. Unless your laundry is in urgent need of folding, I do not require time for myself. In fact, I'd prefer to do just about anything else right now, including laundry."

  "Let's work, then."

  I fetched my laptop bag from the front hall. TC followed me into the kitchen and hopped onto the table to sit in front of Gabriel. They stared at each other. It wasn't a territorial stare-down. It wasn't even TC hinting he'd like a pat. It was, I think, their version of a greeting.

  I see you're back.

  Yes, I am.

  All right, then.

  TC hopped off the table, walked to his bowl, and waited. I filled it, and by the time I was finished, Gabriel had relocated to the parlor. I sat beside him on the sofa, my back resting against his shoulder as I opened my laptop.

  "I'm going to put aside my parents' appeal for today and clear a few others," I said. "First up, Monty Miller. I'm stalled at--"

  My phone chirped with a text. When I made no movement to answer, Gabriel fished the phone from my pocket and checked. The possibility that might be considered rude never occurs to him.

  "Ricky," he said as he passed it over.

  Ricky Gallagher is my ex. I don't call him that, though. An ex is someone you've left behind, usually with the associated nastiness and pain of a breakup. I won't pretend there wasn't pain in ours. No nastiness, though. Ricky had decided we should step back, for very good and very selfless reasons, and I'd had to agree. Which doesn't mean it was easy. Or that I don't light up, seeing his name on my cell-phone screen, before I remember that things have changed. The fact we texted about twenty times a day meant there were a lot of those little stabs of grief. But that constant contact also meant we were navigating the transition from lovers to friends better than I had dared hope.

  He'd texted: I thought hurricane season was over.

  I chuckled and replied: No hurricanes here.

  Him: Rub it in.

  Me: Florida's a bit windy, I take it?

  He was in Miami doing work for his father. I had no idea exactly what kind of work. That's for the best, considering I work for his family lawyer...and Ricky's family business is running a biker gang.

  We texted for a few minutes. Gabriel read over my shoulder, presuming if it was private, I'd have moved away. After a few back-and-forths, Ricky said: Got a favor to ask. You busy?

  When I hesitated, Gabriel leaned over and typed: No.

  Ricky: It's Lloe. Ioan says she isn't eating.

  Lloe was short for Lloergan, Ricky's hound. A fae hound. "Cwn Annwn" literally translates to "Hounds of the Otherworld." Lloergan was a badly damaged cwn Ricky had rescued. She lived with his grandfather, Ioan, who was the leader of the local Cwn Annwn. Yes, Ricky was descended from the Wild Hunt. He wasn't just any human descendant, either. He was the living embodiment of Arawn, legendary lord of the Otherworld. Which meant Lloergan was absolutely devoted to him. But, being a biker and part-time MBA student, there was no place in his life for a dog right now, so she stayed with Ioan, and Ricky took her when he could.

  It had been three days since Ricky left for Miami, and we'd hoped Lloergan would be fine. Obviously not.

  Ricky texted: Can u stop by? Take her 4 a run? That might help. Or if u could dog-sit...

  Of course, I had no problem looking after Lloe. Given the circumstances with this Seanna impostor, though...

  Gabriel took my phone. He typed: That's fine. Then he erased and rephrased it in Olivia-speak: Sure, no problem.

  "Otherwise, you'll worry about her," Gabriel said as he sent the message. "And with this woman coming around, I'm not averse to the idea of you having a supernatural guard dog right now."

  Thx! Ricky texted back. I owe u.

  I signed off with Ricky, and I was putting away my phone when TC slunk past, heading for his spot in the front window.

  "Hey, cat," I said. "We're bringing home a friend for you. A doggie big enough to devour you in a single gulp. Is that okay?"

  He turned a baleful stare on me, as if he understood. I'm convinced TC isn't just a cat, no more than Lloergan is just a dog. Maybe someday, when I'm moments from perishing at the hands of an intruder, TC will save me in a sudden and awe-inspiring display of supernatural power. Or maybe he'll decide I haven't given him enough tuna that week and leave me to my fate. He's a cat, so I figure my chances are about fifty-fifty.

  When footsteps sounded on the porch, TC hissed. I glanced out the window, saw Ida, and groaned. TC hissed again.

  "Excellent instincts," I said to the cat. "Now can you make her disappear?"

  He tore off up the stairs.

  "That's not what I meant!" I called after him.

  Like the other Cainsville elders, Ida is fae. As for why she was on my doorstep...Well, it begins with Welsh lore. The story of Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Hunt.

  According to the myth, on the eve of her marriage to a fae prince, Matilda begged her betrothed to let her ride with the Cwn Annwn one last time. He said that if she did, the world of the fae would close to her forever. She still couldn't resist and ran to her old friend, leader of the Cwn Annwn, and there she was trapped, forced to lead the Wild Hunt for eternity.

  The truth was a little more complex. That story starts with two boys and a girl. A Tylwyth Teg prince: Gwynn ap Nudd. A Cwn Annwn prince: Arawn. And Matilda, a dynes hysbys girl, half fae and half Hunt. The three grew up as best friends, and the boys agreed that to preserve their friendship--and peace between their people--they would never court Matilda. Of course, they forgot to tell her that. She fell for Gwynn, who promptly abandoned his promise. When Arawn found out, he was furious and the two young men made another pact: if Matilda went to Arawn the night before her wedding, she was his.

  Again they didn't inform Matilda because, you know, she might have told them they were idiots. The big night came. When Matilda ran off for one last Hunt with Arawn, the world of the Tylwyth Teg closed in a ring of fire.

  As soon as Matilda saw that, she raced back to Gwynn, and both young men tried to save her, only to watch her perish in the fl
ames. Cue centuries of animosity, the princes becoming kings, each blaming the other for the loss of their beloved Matilda.

  The story didn't end even on their deaths. The three actors are continually reborn. Not reincarnation exactly, but some essence of the originals living on in new players. It is said that if a new Matilda aligns herself with one side over the other--Tylwyth Teg or Cwn Annwn--she brings unfettered access to the elemental resources that keep the fae alive. In the modern world, those resources--clean air and water and earth--are in ever-diminishing supply, so for both fae and Huntsman, getting a Matilda meant winning the survival lottery.

  As might be obvious, I am the new Matilda. I had yet to declare an alliance. I had no idea how to even make that choice.

  While there was no reason I couldn't choose Arawn as a lover but support the Tylwyth Teg instead, that's not how anyone presumes it will work, so both sides hope if I choose their "champion," it will seal the deal. And those champions? Ricky as the new Arawn. Gabriel as Gwynn.

  Ida banged the knocker. I groaned again. Gabriel shook his head and went to answer the door.

  "I thought you were over the fae compulsion thing," I said.

  "I am. But either we answer or we remain trapped in this house until Ida and the elders decide to leave town."

  "I don't think they ever leave."

  "Exactly my point." He opened the door. "Hello, Ida."

  "We'd like to speak to Liv."

  I walked into the hall and saw that "we" meant Ida and her consort, Walter. There was no sign of Veronica, which suggested they were going behind her back for this visit. Veronica had a habit--terribly annoying to Ida--of insisting I not be treated like a lottery ticket found on their doorstep.

  "I know why you're here," Gabriel said. "By contractual agreement, you have one week before you can begin your campaign to win Olivia. You are hoping to open preliminary talks, so on that date you may begin full negotiations. The answer is no. You will wait another week."

  "It's a ridiculous contract."

  "Then you ought not to have signed it."

  Ida glowered at him. The problem with having humans as the living embodiments of Gwynn, Arawn, and Matilda? It's like trying to draft all-star quarterbacks who don't give a shit about football.