Betrayals

by Kelley Armstrong

  I cut in. "We've made significant progress solving the lamiae murders. Which we haven't shared with the elders."

  "That's why I like you, Liv. You know how to play the game. Very refreshing. So, in return for questions answered, I get the scoop on the murders. Which don't interest me personally, but the fact that you confide in me is currency."

  "Even if I only confide in you because you're useful?"

  "You aren't supposed to admit that."

  "Honesty, remember? But because your ego is so delicate, here's a boost for you. You were right; Ioan was wrong."

  "Naturally." Patrick leaned back in his chair. "What was I right about this time?"

  "The samhail. They still exist. Which I confirmed because the guy who killed the lamiae--Ciro Halloran--also comes from a samhail family. Unlike the Madoles, his family has mostly retired from the biz. They didn't feel they were getting enough out of it."

  "As a pragmatist and a realist, I must admit he is correct. Our skills did not hold their value well. Take the leprechauns, for example."

  "There are leprechauns?"

  "Irish fae known for making trouble. Related to bocan, but with far more press, which we are very happy to let them have. They've gotten a little bitter about theirs. If you ever meet one, be sure to offer him some Lucky Charms. They love that."

  "Do they grant wishes? That's the lore, right? Three wishes if you catch one?"

  "Sadly, no."

  "Pot of gold?"

  "One gold coin. Which in past times meant you could feed a family of twelve for a year. These days? What's an ounce of gold? A few hundred dollars?"

  "Sixteen hundred," Gabriel said. "It's doubled in the past four years and quadrupled in the last twenty." When I looked his way, he shrugged and said, "I have investments."

  "Well, consider me behind the times, then," Patrick said. "Perhaps I should go round up a few leprechauns myself."

  "Your point," I said, "is that the value of a single gold coin has dropped drastically over time. Which is an example of how the value of the fae and samhail relationship has fallen. Those who remain in it do so out of obligation and charity."

  Patrick made a face. "Unfortunately, yes. Which is a hard blow for fae, and the reason most no longer avail themselves of samhail services."

  "Those who do still accept the help are like the lamiae. Where need outweighs pride. Similar to those in the human world who accept charity. And maybe also those who consider it their due."

  "Correct. Rumor has it that a few fae subtypes have virtually enslaved samhail families, insisting that they continue aiding them or they will reap punishment instead of benefits. An interesting side note, but unconnected to the current case."

  "Unconnected to lamiae, you mean," I said.

  "Yes. Their only negative power is the draining of energy during intercourse. Which most men would not find such a terrible fate, but given that the lamiae require variety--to avoid draining a particular victim--sexual slavery would be rather counterproductive." He paused. "Though it might make an interesting story. Not quite my usual fare, but there is a market for--"

  "And we'll stop there," I said. "Moving on to deals with Cwn Annwn. Ciro apparently had one. That was his motivation for killing lamiae."

  Patrick went still. When he spoke, it was with care. "I am not fond of the Cwn Annwn, Liv, but as someone who considers himself well versed in both lore and fact, there is nothing in my understanding of the Hunt to suggest..." He trailed off, and I could see him struggling, the troublemaking bocan and the scholar.

  "It wasn't actually the Cwn Annwn," I said. "Not officially, at least."

  He nodded in obvious relief at not having to defend the other team. Then he said, "Officially?"

  "It's a rogue Cwn Annwn. We're still trying to get his story. Apparently, he told Ciro that the lamiae murdered his wife, but if he killed four of them, he could bring her back. He invoked my parents' case, saying I'd died of my illness and the Cwn Annwn brought me back."

  "The Cwn Annwn personally had nothing to do with--"

  "Yes, I know. They invoked some higher power, which is neither god nor demon, and let's not even go there again, because my head is still spinning from the last conversation."

  "Because there's too much mortal blood in you. It constricts your imagination."

  "Or, possibly, you just aren't very good at explaining things."

  "I can't explain what your mind cannot--"

  Gabriel cleared his throat.

  "Back on subject," I said. "This rogue Huntsman twisted my parents' case, and lied about the lamiae killing Lucy--Ciro's wife. He convinced Ciro to murder lamiae in a ritualistic way, presumably because my mother also used a ritual, though we now know she was only copying the first deaths. Also, Ciro had no clue who Ricky was, which proves that part was a setup. This rogue made it look as if Ricky was involved in Lucy's death, but it wasn't exactly a bang-up framing job."

  "Just enough to get Ricky involved," Patrick mused. "To get your attention. All of you."

  "Maybe? The point is that we have all these connections, but they aren't fitting together. Cwn Annwn, my parents, rituals, Ricky, deals...They all link to one or another, but there's no through line. Feel free to tell me it's a failure of my puny human imagination and you have the solution."

  "I'll think about it."

  "Thank you. In the meantime, I know enough about the samhail for now, so instead I want to cash in my research chit and look up Cwn Annwn bargains."

  "You have a chit?"

  "You said I was free to use your books to research samhail. Instead, I want to know more about Cwn Annwn deals. How do people get them? What kind do they offer? Why do they offer them?"

  "Bargains with Cwn Annwn are rare, but not unheard of. When you came to me about your parents' deal, I did some preliminary research, which you didn't end up needing. It does make for entertaining reading, though."

  "Not if you're the subject of one of those deals."

  "Which you can't really regret, under the circumstances."

  "Um, mother turned murderer? Father in jail twenty years for crimes he didn't commit? Yeah, I can regret it."

  "Despite the fact your adopted family gave you every advantage? Love plus money? It doesn't get better than that."

  "My birth parents might disagree. And if they hadn't done the deal? I wouldn't be Matilda, which would have saved me a whole lotta grief."

  "Grief, perhaps. Excitement, definitely. Your life, Liv, will be nothing if not interesting. To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. Also, there is no guarantee that a disability would have lessened the interest in you as Matilda." He turned to Gabriel. "You recognize the sacrifice her parents made to provide her with the life she has. Imperfect but wondrous."

  "And dangerous," Gabriel said. "I could live without that part."

  "Without that, her life would not be nearly as much fun for her. Cwn Annwn live for the adrenaline rush. We all do, in our way."

  "Which takes us back on topic," I said. "Cwn Annwn and deals."

  He waved at the bookshelf. "I suppose you'd like that route. It gets the adrenaline racing more than dry explanation." He glanced at Gabriel. "Liv prefers a life fully lived. Fully experienced. That's the lesson she's teaching you, and I'm glad to see you're such an apt pupil." When Gabriel gave him a look of complete incomprehension, Patrick only sighed and waved his hand. "As long as you take the lessons to heart, you don't need to recite them. Do I dare ask if you want to read one of my books?"

  "What?" Gabriel's composure and formality fell away in almost comical surprise.

  "That would be a no," Patrick said. "Liv dives in. You still need to test the waters. Ah well, it's a start."

  Patrick handed me a book that was newer than most on the shelf. I've done enough work with Victorian original texts to recognize the binding style. It was a cloth cover, embossed in gold, simpler than many of the books I've worked with, with only a Celtic moon on the front.


  It felt oddly light for the size. When I opened the cover, I saw why. Entire sheaves of pages were missing and others were burned, as if someone had set fire to the book.

  "It's in rough shape," Patrick said. "That's the problem with handwritten texts. I can't just run out and replace it. That is one of a kind."

  I flipped through it. The pages that had been removed had been done so surgically. Even on some undamaged ones, entire paragraphs had been blacked out.

  "Redacted material?" I said.

  "Apparently."

  I lifted the book to examine it more closely. "It was intentionally mutilated, then."

  "So it seems. My theory is that the owners really would have liked to destroy it before it got into the wrong hands, but they couldn't quite bring themselves to obliterate decades of work. The fire damage suggests one owner even got so far as to toss it into the fire before changing his mind."

  "Dark, arcane knowledge?" I said. "Unfit for the hands of fae or mortal?"

  Patrick chuckled. "I wish. No, the contents are much more prosaic."

  Before he could continue, I began skimming, picking up what Welsh I knew. Two words, repeated many times, made it very clear what this was.

  "It's a history of the Cwn Annwn," I said.

  "Yes."

  Patrick sat beside me, nudging Gabriel away, which was rather like nudging a stone block. He got a cool look for his efforts and, with a sigh, Patrick pulled up the ottoman and perched on it instead. Then he reached over and flipped through pages while the book lay on my lap.

  "It appears that around the turn of the last century a Huntsman decided to compile a history of their kind. This is his life's work. You'll see it's all in a single hand, the ink changing and..." He turned to the back, where at least twenty pages were blank. "Continued right up until his death."

  "Why the mutilation?" I said.

  "Fae consider themselves a secretive lot, but..." He waved at his library. "Obviously that doesn't apply to our books. It's arrogance, really. We presume we can write what we like, and if any mortal finds it, he'll think it a work of fiction. The Cwn Annwn are far more careful. The thought that someone outside their community would find such a book..." He gave a mock shudder.

  "So a Huntsman wrote it, and his pack found it after his death. They cut out and redacted the most sensitive information but couldn't bring themselves to destroy his life's efforts. Dare I ask how you got hold of it?"

  He smiled. "You can ask. I won't tell. And I would very much prefer that Ioan didn't discover I have it."

  "Of course not. Once he got it, I'd never see it again."

  "Smart girl. All right, then, the information is a bit fragmented, particularly the parts on deals." He turned to near the back of the book, where a section had been almost entirely redacted.

  "Uh-huh," I said. "I'm surprised they didn't just cut this out completely."

  "Mmm, I can understand their reluctance. In matters of business--as in law--it is helpful to be able to refer to a precedent. For our purposes, it's good that they left the pages in, because while the words are covered, they still exist. You'll notice jumps and jolts, but you should be able to get the general picture. You'll want to start here..."

  He pointed partway down the page. I began to read, translating the general gist of the text that remained.

  The offering of deals is a difficult business. It allows the Cwn Annwn to pursue justice in cases where they otherwise could not, and as has been previously explained, it is the pursuit of justice that drives us. Quite literally. It feeds a hunger that is never quite satiated. The actual pursuit--the chase--only takes the edge from that hunger. To see justice done temporarily stills that relentless drive. While exacting justice ourselves is best, we can take pleasure in the victory of others.

  The danger, obviously, is the temptation to offer such deals as often as we can. Yet to do that, perversely, would nullify the effect. It speaks to the dual nature of our basic drives. We want justice, and we want it to be righteous. To accept deals for substandard reasons means we would also choose substandard victims--those where the righteousness of the punishment is questionable. We risk falling victim to our drives, a danger that faces anyone who vehemently pursues justice. At what point are we taking lives for our own pleasure rather than fulfilling our contract with the universe? Such a thought is abhorrent to the Cwn Annwn and, therefore, we offer deals very selectively.

  The concept behind any deal is the sacrifice of life, which allows us to channel those powers we cannot name. Lifeblood must soak the earth. Again, the idea is repellent to us, but if the deal is offered in such a way that it also fulfills our need for justice, then we can righteously act as mediators in the transaction.

  The rest of the paragraph had been redacted. The next one started...

  The earliest example I was able to find--which is almost certainly not the very earliest--was a case in the old country...

  At last, the ink swam and I braced myself for it to open, and when it did, I tumbled through into a forest.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A man crouched by a well-worn path. His clothing suggested a Celtic clansman, but my knowledge of such things is pretty much limited to movies and novels.

  As he crouched there, breathing hard, I picked up the thunder of hooves. Then the bay of hounds, so loud the man stumbled back, and he grabbed a tree trunk, as if needing to hold tight to keep from running for his life. His breath came ragged and loud, his face a pale mask of panic. Fire blazed through the trees, the baying of the hounds softer, the pounding of hooves hard enough to shake the earth. A man raced past, tearing down the path like the hounds of hell were on his heels. Which they were.

  The man himself wore armor--a helmet and leather breastplate. He had a sword in hand, but he didn't stop to use it. As he tore past us, the hounds pursued, and I swore sparks flew as their paws struck the earth. They passed, and the man beside me threw himself toward the path, using the tree as leverage to launch himself there.

  That's when I saw the Hunt. The true Hunt. Black steeds bore down on us, red-eyed and fire-maned. Dark-cloaked men rode on their backs. Or I must presume they were men--their hoods were drawn up and all I could see were red glinting eyes.

  The clansman dropped to the path and covered his head and shouted, "Mercy, lords of the Otherworld. Mercy!"

  The soldier long past us shrieked and the hounds snarled, and I knew from that sound that they'd caught their prey. The horses whinnied, and the riders reined them in.

  The scene stuttered, like a film caught in the projector. And I glimpsed a house, a modern house, so briefly that I could tell nothing more about it. A house and a voice, and then I was back in the forest, shaking my head and remembering what Patrick said, that there might be fits and starts from the book's mutilation. When I looked up, the front rider had brought his steed to the cowering man.

  "You are not our prey tonight," he said, his voice a sonorous boom from the depths of that hood. I was pretty sure he--like the cowering man--didn't speak modern English, but as usual, that's what I heard. "Go home, and tell no one of what you have seen, lest the Hunt come for you next."

  "I-I wish to speak to you. I have waited for you."

  "You interrupt our hunt intentionally?"

  "I beg pardon, my lord. It was the only way to gain your attention, and the hounds have taken their prey, so I hope the imposition is not too grievous."

  "You hope wrongly. I can tell you come from a family of cunning men, which explains how you know of us, and perhaps you think that excuses you, but that knowledge is the very reason why you have no excuse. You have impeded--"

  "And I will pay the price, whatever it may be. But I beseech you, my lords, to hear me out. My wife has been taken by the Romans. She is forced to serve in their kitchens, and from what I have heard..." He swallowed. "That is not all she is forced to do."

  The Huntsman shifted on his horse, the beast dancing in place as he let out a sound not unlike a hound's growl. "The Rom
ans are a plague on this soil." He gestured to where the hounds snarled in the distance. "We took one of their damned soldiers tonight. He'd come upon a dryad in the woods, and when she could not escape, he took his time with her and has now paid. This is still our land."

  "Yes, my lords. Yet as long as the Romans remain, we are subject to their tyranny. Freeing my wife would be difficult enough, but if she escapes, she brings down the wrath of the eagles on our heads. I need another solution. A magical one."

  "To free your wife in such a way that her captors do not realize she's gone," the Huntsman mused. "Presumably also freeing others from your village, which will require more than simple fae compulsion. An interesting proposition."

  "In return, I will do whatever you ask of me."

  There was a silence so long the man began to plead, but the Huntsman raised his hand. "Would you murder Romans?"

  "Gladly."

  "Murder them in a way that you might find repulsive? There was a tribal camp a half day's ride from here. A dozen women and children forced to flee their homeland. While their men were away, four Romans struck. They raped, and they slaughtered, and there is nothing we can do about it, no victim having fae blood. We would like the perpetrators killed in a way that will teach others that the women and children of this land are not their playthings."

  "Yes, my lords. I will do as you..."

  The scene flickered again. I was in a bedroom, looking out from behind bars. The bars of a crib. I remembered the cribs in the abandoned asylum, but this was a child's bedroom, sparking some deep memory--

  "Got a deal for you," a man's voice said.

  I shot back through time, landing this time in a tavern thick with smoke and stinking of fish and cheap whiskey and unwashed bodies. Three men sat at a corner table. They were not dressed finely, but they were clean and well groomed, and they held themselves apart with an air of fastidiousness, like travelers who've wandered into the wrong part of town in search of a drink. A few men circled, as if thinking they might be easy marks, but cold looks from the trio sent them scuttling off. All except this one, who stood beside their table.

  "I have a deal for the Huntsmen," the man said.

  The oldest of the three lifted cool green eyes to the man. "And you think this is the way to bring it to us?"