Terror. Overwhelming terror, like something had reached into his brain and released every nightmare, the shock of that doubling him over, breath stopping, heart stopping, everything stopping, that blackness swallowing him and--
God-fucking-damn it, no. Just no. Get a fucking grip.
He gave himself a mental smack upside the head. He would not go down. He would not let this bastard put him down. He was better than that. Stronger than that.
He was Arawn.
Or at least he could fake it long enough to smack himself back into shape.
"You find this funny, boy?"
Ricky realized he was laughing. Doubled over, barely able to breathe, but wasting what little breath he did have laughing at himself. Because sometimes, that's all you could do. You make a fucking stupid mistake, and you could only call yourself an idiot and then snap back before you screwed up again.
He heard Liv in the forest, trying to sneak toward them, and when he looked, the rogue Huntsman's shadow had taken shape. Still black as night, no features to be seen, but the form of a cloaked man turning in Liv's direction.
Ricky ran at the figure. He jumped at its back and hit solid flesh and thought Yes! and then his hands started to pass through it, to pass into absolute cold, that ice running up his arms, pitch black enveloping his arms--
Running.
He was running so fast every breath was a dagger through his lungs, but the terror--that crushing terror--kept his legs moving as pain ripped through them, ripped through his entire body.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...
Prayers raced through his head, the words expelled on each exhalation, words Ricky didn't know, prayers he didn't know. Another man's prayers, coming in desperation, a ward against a fear for which there was no ward, a hope against a fate for which there was no hope.
A vision? A memory? Someone's memory. Not the Huntsman's, but from him, a straight shot of terror, sending Ricky tumbling into some stranger's body, in some long-ago place. He tried to hold on to that, tell himself this wasn't real, but all he could think, all he could feel, was whatever this poor man was thinking, feeling...
The hounds, dear Lord, the hounds, he could hear their baying growing ever more distant, and in the beginning that had given him hope, until he'd discovered that the farther away they sounded, the closer they actually were, and when he glanced over his shoulder--
Do not look! Do not look!
He looked anyway, and he saw fire. The fires of hell on his tail, giant hounds whose eyes blazed, giant black steeds who breathed flames, whose fetlocks and manes burned with it. And the riders. He could see the riders now. Faceless cloaked men with red eyes. Eyes that burned hellfire and promised damnation.
No more than I deserve.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
No grace, no blessing, no escape, no mercy for him, because he'd shown none. Shown none to those women he'd taken and toyed with, and this was the price, yes, this was the price.
No one told me it was the price!
The world had lied. It told him that if he was caught, the most he'd suffer was a lifetime in prison, and with it would come fame, glorious fame, his face in every newspaper.
But there was no fame. No face on a newspaper. No name in a headline. He would die, his deeds unnoticed, his body torn apart in the forest, corpse left to rot and feed wild creatures and hungry earth, because this is what she'd promised him. The last woman. The one whose skin had shimmered when he'd sliced her open. The one who'd spouted madness when he captured her, who'd promised him this ignoble end.
The hounds will come. The Huntsmen will come. You will burn.
No more than he deserved, and he knew it now, as he ran.
Is that not enough? That I know it? I confess. I confess!
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.
Hail Mary, full of grace.
Isn't that how it worked? Confess and ye shall be saved. Repent and ye shall be forgiven.
He heard the woman's tinkling laughter as he ran. She'd laughed as he'd sliced into her, promised that no matter what he did to her, his death would be a thousand times worse.
He stumbled then. Felt his foot slide out. Felt his brain scream, No! Heard it rip from his lungs. No! I repent! I repent! and the woman's laughter rang out like a trumpet at his ear.
The trumpet of the archangel, on the Day of Judgment, calling him home to heaven.
"Oh, no," her voice whispered in his ear. "This is Judgment Day, but heaven is not where you're going, Michael O'Grady."
He felt the body strike his. A massive furred body, knocking him off his feet, onto his back, and then he saw it, the hound, the giant hound, its eyes blazing fire, jaws opening, fangs slashing down--
Ricky Gallagher. I'm Ricky Gallagher!
Through the wild and swirling vision, Ricky found himself and shouted the words in his head, and he snapped back so fast he felt himself hit the ground, flat on his back, the oomph of the blow exhaled on a single breath.
He blinked hard, pulling back the scattered piece of his psyche, forcing the last remnants of the vision away and--
He felt something moving over him. Something on his chest. He tried to jerk upright, but it shoved him back down and all he could see above him was darkness and then...
Eyes. Blazing red eyes. A massive paw on his chest. A huge shadowy head taking form above his. The head of a hound.
No, damn it. I'm Ricky Gallagher. I'm--
"I don't know if you can understand me, hound," a voice said. "But if you lower those teeth another inch, I'm putting a bullet through your skull."
"Liv," he said, her name coming out as a croak, his throat as tight and dry as if he had been the one shouting prayers and protests.
She moved into his field of vision, her gun pointed at the hound. "You okay? Well, other than being pinned under a giant hound?"
He managed a laugh. "Other than that, yeah. Where--?"
The hound snarled, as if to say, Hey, asshole, did you forget I'm here? and he saw that it was the hound. The injured one. The broken one.
It was and it was not, because when he looked into those fiery eyes, blazing with hate, he didn't need to ask where the Huntsman had gone.
"I see you," he whispered.
The hound snarled. Those massive jaws opened, and Liv leapt forward, covering the last few feet between them.
"Don't you dare, hound," she said, a snarl in her own voice, and when the hound ignored her, she was right there, the gun barrel at the back of the beast's skull.
"No!" Ricky said.
"I won't unless I have to. But if those fangs get any closer--"
The beast lowered its head an inch. Taunting her. Testing her. And her finger tightened on the trigger.
"No!" Ricky said again. "It's not the hound. It's him--the Huntsman. He's possessed it."
"And I'm sorry," she said slowly. "But that doesn't matter. That can't matter."
The hound's lips curled, and Ricky swore he heard the Huntsman's laughter. Rage rippled through him.
You bastard. You twisted son of a bitch. The hound served you well, no matter how much it hated you, and this is how you repay it. As a pawn in a game. A lesson to me.
Ricky looked into the hound's eyes and his knee shot up, catching it in the gut. As that knee made contact, his hands shot around the beast's throat, but the blow surprised the beast for only a second and it wrested its head free, and they rolled, him grappling for a hold, the hound slashing at him, and then the beast convulsing as a blow rocked it, and Ricky glanced over to see Liv falling back, her leg still raised from a kick.
The hound slashed and snapped at him. Liv cursed as she tried to intervene. Ricky managed to land a blow under the hound's muzzle, and its head jerked up, and he grabbed fur in both hands, fists of fur, holding its head aloft as it fought and snapped, the beast stronger than him, so fucking much stronger. He tried to knee it in the gut again, but the angle was
wrong. It fought wildly against his hands, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Liv lining up her shot. He yanked the beast's head down--toward him--and the surprise of that startled the hound enough for Ricky to lock gazes with it and shout, "Mine!"
This is mine. My hound, you son of a bitch, and I'm taking it back.
Darkness swirled, wild darkness, and when Ricky opened his eyes, he was looking down at himself, unconscious on the ground.
"Ricky!"
He stumbled back fast. He saw Liv raise the gun.
"What did you do to Ricky?" she said, that gun pointed at him.
I'm the hound. Shit, I'm inside the hound.
He glanced down at his feet...which were now giant black paws.
There, sorted? Now get the fuck away from your body before she shoots.
He kept backing away, staggering and sliding, his limbs moving awkwardly as he scrambled. Liv advanced on him, gun still raised, fury burning in her eyes. He whined and lowered his head.
Damn it, Gallagher, figure this out before--
But she didn't shoot. She just gave him one glower before dropping beside his body, her gaze still on the hound, her trembling fingers going to his body's neck, her eyelids fluttering in relief as she picked up a pulse. Then she looked at him, the hound, her eyes meeting his. Her head tilted, nose scrunching, as if seeing something she couldn't quite decipher. Her eyes widened and her lips opened, and before she could get the words out, darkness swirled, and when he opened his eyes again, he was lying on the forest floor, staring up at Liv crouched over him as the hound teetered and collapsed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ricky's hazel eyes looked up into mine. I put my arm under his shoulders and helped him sit.
"Were you just...?" I began.
"Possessing a huge fae hound?" he said. "I have no idea. At this point, I'm starting to think someone sprinkled acid on my pizza and I'm passed out on a sidewalk somewhere."
"We ate the same pizza," I said. "Which may be the explanation."
He chuckled and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. If that's what visions are like, I don't know how you do it, Liv. I'm here, and then I'm not, and then I'm someone else, and then I'm something else, and holy fuck."
He got to his feet, still wobbly as I helped him up.
"I remember when I turned eighteen," he said. "My dad took me to the cabin, and he brought out a bunch of shit. Product. You know. He said if I was curious, that's how I was going to do it. Try it there, with him to watch me. Get it over with."
"Did you?"
He shook his head. "I wasn't curious. I'd smoked pot when I was a kid. It made me feel just kind of...flat. Relaxed. Mellow. Not really my thing. Now?" He rubbed his temples. "I feel like my brain exploded...and not in a good way."
"Sorry," I said.
"I'm the dumbass who had to see what was in the forest--" Ricky wheeled, gaze flying to the hound, still lying on its side. "Shit!" he murmured as he ran and crouched beside it. "Okay, it's breathing. And..." He looked around. "The Huntsman?"
I shook my head. "No idea. Last I saw, he was over there"--I pointed--"when you jumped him. Then you blacked out and before I could even get to you, the hound barreled out of the forest and pounced."
"He possessed it."
"And then you did, and while I'd love to think that means the Huntsman got his psychic ass kicked, that's probably too much to hope for." I looked around, my gun raised. "If there's any way of waking the pooch, I'm going to suggest we get it out of--" I stopped. "No. There's someone in the cabin."
"What?"
"When you disappeared, I found the cabin, with the hound guarding the door. Then I heard you and the Huntsman taunting each other in the forest."
"Which means the hound wasn't guarding him."
"And whoever it was guarding isn't being guarded anymore. You stay with the hound. I'll--"
"No."
"I won't go inside, I'll just see what's--"
"No, Liv," he said, walking back to me. "Maybe we can't control when we get separated, but we're sure as hell not compounding the issue by voluntarily separating. The hound..." He trailed off, then came back firm. "The hound will be fine."
I glanced at him, his jaw set, gaze resolutely turned away from the fallen beast. Determined to walk away and tell himself it would be fine while every fiber screamed for him not to abandon his hound. I knew which side would win. The one he'd already chosen. Because that was how we remained ourselves. Olivia, not Matilda. Ricky, not Arawn. Make the choices from our heads, not from our hearts.
But it's the heart that matters, isn't it? That's what we really are. Not Arawn with his hound. Ricky with his hound.
"Let's wake it up," I said, walking back to the beast.
"No, we need to--"
"We can spare a few minutes. Get it up and moving. It's not hurt--just unconscious."
Of course, I had no way of knowing that for certain, but I pushed the fear aside and lowered myself next to the beast. Ricky did the same, and he shook it, talking to it, and after a moment I realized this would be easier for him if I didn't hear what he said, so I made the excuse that I should walk around, check for the Huntsman.
"Not out of sight, okay?" he said.
I nodded and walked and listened to him coaxing the hound, as if he was trying to bring its spirit back. He promised it everything he could promise and nothing that he couldn't. It felt like eavesdropping. This was the side he'd grown up learning to keep to himself. The gentler side. The softer side, he'd say, with that disparaging twist he used for the word because that's the one he'd heard whispered among the Saints, the worry that Ricky was "a little soft." He could find his edge, but this was the Ricky I knew, the guy who worried about a hound, who'll whisper to it and coax it back, while asking me not to leave his sight. Consideration. Caring. Which is no weakness at all.
When he exhaled in relief, I turned to see the hound lifting its head. Ricky rubbed it around the ears, then he got to his feet and said, "It's fine. We should go check the cabin." Because that was Ricky, too. The side that cared and worried never interfered with whatever needed doing.
"Can it follow us?" I asked. "That would be better."
I moved slowly toward the hound, ready for it to flinch. It only watched me. When I drew up alongside Ricky, it snorted and laid its head on the ground.
"If it can follow, it will," Ricky said. "But it's safe here." He surveyed the forest. "The woods are different now. Lighter."
The forest did feel more itself. Still unnaturally dark, but I could make out faint stars overhead.
"The Huntsman's gone," I said.
"For now."
"You showed him."
Ricky smiled. "Nah, he's just regrouping."
"Which still means you were more than he bargained for."
Ricky shrugged and was starting to speak when running footsteps sounded. He took off at a lope.
"So I guess the hound wasn't protecting someone," he said as I caught up. "It was holding someone captive. I shouldn't have waited to wake--"
"That was my call," I said. "I didn't want the Huntsman zapping back into it and coming after you again."
He glanced over, telling me he knew that wasn't why I'd insisted he rouse the beast.
"It's not like our quarry is sneaking off into that good night," I said, waving in the direction of the crashing.
He grabbed my hand and squeezed. "Thank you."
"Pretty sure I haven't done anything."
"Yeah, you have. You always do. Fuck, I love you."
"So...hunt?"
He laughed and smacked my ass with one hand. "Yes, my lady. No more inconveniently timed spontaneous displays of affection. On to your hunt."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We flanked the captive, and ran alongside him until we reached the perfect spot, where the trees thinned to my left. Then Ricky veered and barreled through a pile of dead leaves, startling our target, making him swerve toward open ground.
When the man entered
that semi-clearing, he glanced over his shoulder, saw Ricky, and then turned back to find me right in front of him. He pulled up short, his arms windmilling and--
It was Ciro Halloran.
"Who are you?" he said.
"Turn around," Ricky said.
As Ciro did, I circled him in case he went after Ricky.
Ciro's forehead wrinkled. "Do I know you?"
Ricky walked farther into the moonlight. "Is that better?"
Ciro's expression said it wasn't.
"You don't know him?" I said.
Ciro shook his head slowly, his gaze fixed on Ricky.
"His photos were found in your condo," I said. "Surveillance photos you'd taken."
"Surveillance photos?"
"He's Rick Gallagher," I said, watching for any glimmer of recognition in his eyes. "Of the Satan's Saints."
"Satan's...?"
"You sent him a letter."
"E-mail, you mean? I didn't. If someone used my address--"
"And you don't know me, either."
He took a better look at me, and that's when I got a glimmer of recognition, though the spark didn't ignite.
"Olivia Taylor-Jones," I said. "Also known as Eden Larsen."
"Eden..." He stared at me. "You're..."
"Daughter of serial killers. Well, at least you read the papers."
"No, I mean you're..." He swallowed. "Right. The papers. That's where I've seen you."
"Which isn't what you were going to say at all," Ricky said, advancing slowly. "I'll ask you to finish that sentence."
"I didn't--"
"I'll insist you finish that sentence."
Ciro's mouth worked. I got a better look at him then, this killer of fae. He wasn't tall, maybe only an inch or so over my five-eight. Narrow face, thin build, hands at his sides, clenching into fists and then quickly unclenching, as if realizing the nervous gesture could be taken for an aggressive one.
As Ricky moved closer, Ciro seemed to fight the urge to run. His posture was downright submissive, gaze lowered, chin tucked down, like a little boy in the schoolyard, watching the bully bear down on him and fighting not to flinch.
"Here are a few more words for you," I said. "Cwn Annwn. Tylwyth Teg."
His gaze shot to me. "You...you know? It's true, then?" He blanched. "No, tell me it's not true. Tell me I didn't lose my opportunity..." He swayed, as if his knees were about to give way. "No, no, please. It's not true. He lied. He must have lied. Otherwise...Lucy. Oh God, Lucy."
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