Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  Of course, all of that was dismissed, with the columnist waxing poetic about the tight bonds and loving care that a small town bestows on its own. How much different was life in the bustling, impersonal city? How much better might troubled children like this one be if they were instead raised in the pastoral perfection of the countryside?

  I read that article and I saw that my blossoming theory, however mad it seemed, might actually be right. I just needed to prove it.

  --

  When Macy called me shortly before my diner shift, I swear there was a moment, after she introduced herself, where I was unable to find my voice, certain that . . . I don't know. That the universe had prodded her to call me, knowing I had information that could change her life? It was merely coincidence, of course, given that I'd handed her my card only twenty-four hours earlier and asked her to call if she remembered anything.

  "The man who took me said something else," she said. "Something weird. One of those things that you think you've heard wrong, but then you can't figure out what else it could have been."

  "What's that?"

  "He asked if I'd had any tests done."

  "Tests?"

  "That's what I thought. I figured . . ." A pause, and when her voice came back, it was lowered, as if sharing a secret. "I don't sleep around, Ms. Jones. I really don't, and I don't want you to get the wrong impression when I say this."

  "Okay."

  "I thought he meant STD tests. I thought--" She swallowed. "I thought he was taking me somewhere for sex, and I was okay with that, which is why I think I must have been drugged."

  "It did seem like it when I met you."

  "It did?" An exhale of relief. "Good. So I thought he was asking if I'd been tested recently. I said I hadn't . . . been with anyone in a while. He laughed and said that wasn't what he meant. And then he asked if we'd had other tests, me and my parents, and I was so embarrassed about the STD thing that I figured I was hearing wrong and said no. He said we should." Macy paused. "Do you know what he meant?"

  Yes. And I can't tell you. Not until I've figured it all out, and even then I don't know if I will. If I can. Despite what a difference it could make to your life.

  "No, I don't know," I said. "Did he say anything else about it?"

  "That was it. I should have asked, but it didn't seem important."

  "It probably wasn't. But if I find out what he meant, I'll let you know."

  "Please."

  --

  At the diner, I got a text from Ricky saying he needed to talk as soon as I got a moment. I called him back between orders.

  "You know how I mentioned my dad was taking off to Florida for a few days?" Ricky said.

  "Miami, on business."

  "He just told me he has other obligations, and I need to take his place."

  "Huh."

  "Yeah, huh. Any other time, I'd be thrilled at the chance to prove myself. But this is because I promised him our relationship wasn't going to interfere with my club duties . . ."

  "He's testing you."

  "Right."

  "Go," I said.

  "I'd rather not. This shit with James . . . I feel like I should be here, in case you need me."

  I hesitated, thinking of what the Huntsman had said about keeping Ricky close. I dismissed it. The man wanted something from me and would say whatever was needed to make me run to him for protection and answers.

  "I'll be fine," I said. "Go."

  --

  During my shift, I passed a note to Patrick, asking him to meet me after work. He agreed with a smug smile.

  He was waiting in the park for me.

  "Changelings," I said as I walked over.

  He blinked, then recovered as he smiled and said, "Good evening to you, too."

  "Tell me about changelings."

  "Mmm." He waved for me to join him on the bench. "That's a very old piece of folklore, used to explain children who weren't quite right. A mentally challenged child. A mentally ill child. A wild and uncontrollable child. No parent wants to believe they've created such a thing. So according to the folklore--"

  "I know the folklore. I want to know how it works in Cainsville."

  He paused, then said slowly, "How it works?"

  "How you do it. Why you do it. You and the other elders."

  It took him a moment to find the proper look of confusion and shock, and even when he did, he took no great pains to make it genuine, the expression underneath one of pleasure and pride. Like a parent secretly delighted that their child is clever enough to have deduced there is no Santa Claus.

  "I have no idea what you're--"

  "Robert Sheehan," I said, naming the boy from the newspaper. "Ciara Conway. Macy Shaw."

  "Conway . . . That's the girl whose body you found, isn't it?"

  "Not really. Ciara Conway is alive. Macy Shaw is the one who died. The real Macy Shaw, that is. They were switched at birth. Changelings of a sort."

  "That's quite a tale. I've heard of such mix-ups--"

  "The elders got rid of Ciara's body--the switched Ciara, that is. I don't know how. As for why--that's obvious. They were worried the truth would be discovered. They just weren't savvy enough to realize the techs had already taken DNA samples. Someone advised the Conways to have their DNA tested. Ostensibly to be sure the dead girl was Ciara. Now they know she isn't their daughter. I know who is--a young woman who was kidnapped and used to lure me to an abandoned mental hospital. She was taken by a man named Tristan. Well, not a man, I'm sure. No more than you are."

  "I don't know--"

  "What are you? Bocan? Bogart? Some kind of hobgoblin? That's my guess. Mischievous. Dangerous if you get on his bad side. Helpful if you stay on his good, and if you understand the rules. Tit for tat. Fair trade."

  He opened his mouth, but before he got a word out, I said, "Patrick Rice. Patricia Rees. Patrice Rhys. I can show you the photograph of Patrick Rice. Just for kicks, of course, because I don't expect you to confirm any of this. What I want from you is another answer. A trade-off. You don't confirm this, but you do confirm that. Tit for tat."

  A pause. Then, "Perhaps. If I can." He met my gaze. "You understand that, I hope, Olivia. There are things I cannot do. Things I cannot tell you."

  "Whatever. For now, I have a hypothetical about the changelings, to help me figure out what's going on, why a girl died and why I'm being targeted in relation to that death."

  "By this Tristan? If you tell me more about him, I might be able to help."

  "Gabriel and I will handle him. For now, hypothetically, if babies were being switched, babies that are connected to a small town populated by fairies--"

  "Tylwyth Teg. Hypothetically."

  "What? The word 'fairies' offends you?"

  "Hypothetically. Fae if you must."

  "Fine. So these babies get switched. Why?"

  He seemed to consider this, and I was bracing for him to refuse to answer when he said, "Take a look at the families involved. What do you see?"

  "Well, the children don't resemble the parents--"

  "Look deeper, Olivia. There is a very marked difference in the families."

  "They come from different sides of the track, so to speak. One is upper-middle-class. The other is lower. The income level--"

  "Deeper."

  I considered. "The Conways are solid citizens. Well educated, no trouble with the law, and so on. The Shaws are none of the above. Criminal records. Addictions. A family with deep-rooted problems."

  "Hmm."

  "And the point is? So you took--"

  "I did nothing."

  "Hypothetically."

  "Hypothetically or not, I did nothing."

  "Fine. So someone takes a girl from a good family and switches her--"

  "Reverse the situation."

  "Someone takes a girl from a troubled family and--" I looked up sharply. "And gives her a better chance."

  "Perhaps."

  "Why would--?" I stopped myself. "Because she's the one wh
o matters. The girl born to the Shaws, who grew up as Ciara Conway."

  To collect my thoughts, I got up and walked to the fence. I absently rubbed one of the chimeras, and when I did, I imagined the shrieks of children, delighted shrieks, and even if I don't have a maternal bone in my body, I felt what a parent must feel, that burst of pleasure and of pride and of something else--the instinct to keep their children happy, to keep them safe, to mow down every obstacle in their path to do it.

  When I looked out again, I saw something on the grass, glowing in the moonlight. A ring of mushrooms.

  A fairy ring.

  I opened the gate.

  "Olivia?" Patrick called.

  I ignored him and walked to the ring and knelt beside it. Mushrooms, perfectly arranged in a circle. No, not quite perfectly--there were a few stray ones in the middle. Small ones, lost in the grass. Protected within the circle.

  I reached to touch one . . . and the ring vanished. Gone in a blink, because it had never been there. It was a vision, a nudge in the direction I already knew was correct.

  Patrick stood outside the gate, watching me.

  "They're your children," I said. "Fae children. They're Tylwyth Teg."

  "Not Tylwyth--"

  "Partly," I said. "You built this place. Cainsville is yours. Yet not quite. Not at first. There were other settlers. Humans. You needed that to be accepted as a community. But the danger of allowing others into your sanctuary is that they outnumber you. When a native population is in danger of being engulfed by the newcomers, their best choice for survival is co-breeding."

  Patrick moved aside to let me back into the park. I sat on the bench. He stayed where he was, facing me.

  "Depending on the subtype, the descendants inherit both gifts and curses," I said. "Sometimes more one than the other. A hobgoblin, for example, might bestow on his children a knack for mischief and trouble, one that could serve them well in life . . . or see them serving a life sentence in prison. Every now and then, when things get too badly out of hand, action must be taken to safeguard the children. Take one from a troubled family and give her a better chance in life. Switch her into a family untainted by the blood but with ties to Cainsville, a family that the Tylwyth Teg can be certain will give their descendant the best possible chance at life." I looked up at Patrick. "Is that a reasonable theory? Hypothetically speaking?"

  "Adjacent to reasonable," he said. "Hypothetically speaking. Was that your question, then?"

  "No. The question is more specific and more personal." I rose and took a step toward him. "What are you to Gabriel?"

  His lips twitched, and in that familiar ghost of a smile I saw my answer. I'd always seen my answer. But I asked the question again, and he said, "I believe the solution to that mystery lies in your hypothetical, Olivia."

  "The Walsh family is descended from your kind. Well, Tylwyth Teg, that is. And it's more complicated than a single ancestor from a single type. The Walshes are gifted. The Walshes are royally fucked up. Some one or the other. Some both. That's not the result of a single hobgoblin screwing a Walsh girl two hundred years ago. It's more complicated than that. And with Gabriel, it's much more complicated, because the screwing happened relatively recently. About thirty years ago, I'd guess."

  As I looked for a reaction, I realized how eerily still he was. People are rarely still. They blink or they shift or they twitch or they tap. Patrick stood perfectly motionless. No sign to tell me that I was on the right path. But no denial, either. He just waited.

  "When I mentioned the man that Seanna wanted Gabriel to stay away from, you said, 'Perhaps he gave her a gift she didn't want. It happens, between men and women.' That was my hint, wasn't it? Or maybe you were just amusing yourself, presuming I was too clueless to get it."

  "I would never underestimate you, Olivia."

  "But you won't tell me anything, either. You fear the others."

  Did I hope that would spur him to talk, like a child proving he isn't afraid of the bullies? If so, I needed to remind myself that he wasn't human. I couldn't expect him to act like one.

  He shrugged. "I fear the loss of a comfortable life. But I do believe there are exceptions to rules, times when rules ought to be broken. It would be better for all if you understood more. Safer. For you, in particular."

  "No, for Gabriel in particular, because you're the one who gave Seanna that so-called gift. You gave her a son."

  He said nothing.

  "I'm right, aren't I?" I said.

  "Is that your question?"

  Yes, it was, and he didn't even need to answer. I could see it in his reaction--or his lack of one.

  "How old was she?" I said.

  "Old enough."

  "So you impregnated a drug-addled--"

  "Seanna's problems came later. At the time, she was a promising young woman."

  "Until she was, what, eighteen and saddled with a baby?"

  He eased back. "Yes, I seduced her. For my own amusement. The outcome was not intended, but it's the risk you take. And there were signs."

  "Signs?"

  "Yes, signs. Portents, your area of expertise. And I'll say no more on the matter or I really will get myself in trouble. I seduced Seanna. She became pregnant. While charms were enough for her to forget exactly who the father was, she clearly retained enough awareness to not want Gabriel associating with me." He got to his feet. "And with that, I should take my leave--"

  "Like you took your leave of Gabriel?"

  He looked at me.

  "You abandoned him," I said. "You watched him grow up. You had to know what happened later, when she died and he was alone. And you did nothing."

  "What would you have me do, Olivia? Find him a better family? That's what they wanted. The other elders. I refused. He needed to stay with his mother."

  "The drug addict who neglected him. Who made his life such a hell that when she disappeared, he never even thought she might be dead. How bad does a mother need to be for her fifteen-year-old to presume she'd abandon him?"

  "So you think I should have let them switch him?" His brows lifted. "We are monsters for what we did to the Conways' child, giving her to a troubled family to make way for our own, but if it was Gabriel who'd have gotten a better life . . . ?"

  "I only meant that you should have done something. You were responsible for him, Patrick. For creating him. For creating the situation. And when it all went to hell, you turned your back--"

  "Do you know how they temper steel, Olivia?"

  "I don't care--"

  "The application of controlled heat. As strong as the metal will withstand. That produces the most resilient steel. Too much and it will break. It must be tough, yet slightly malleable. Adaptable to the greatest number of situations. That's Gabriel. He's been tested and tempered and--"

  "And he is a person!" I roared, unable to hold back any longer. "He is not a sword. Not a tool. I don't care what the hell you had in mind for him. You screwed him over, and now you tell me you were tempering--"

  The sound of footsteps cut me short. They came from the walkway to my apartment, as a figure ran down the path. It was too dark to see more than a shape, but there was no question who it was. Gabriel didn't slow until he'd emerged into the moonlight and saw who I was with.

  "Sorry," I called. "Everything's fine."

  He glanced at Patrick, then at me again. "I'll wait . . ." He motioned back toward the path.

  I nodded, and he retreated between the buildings, far enough for privacy but not letting me out of his sight, either.

  I started walking away. I had what I'd come for. The rest was just anger, futile rage.

  Before I could open the gate, Patrick caught my arm.

  "Look at him, Olivia," he whispered.

  I did, in spite of myself, glancing at Gabriel, backed into the shadows now but still visible, the set of his shoulders and his jaw, the glitter of his pale eyes, fixed on us, watching for trouble.

  "You know what kind of man he is," Patrick said, his voi
ce low. "You know what he's capable of. His intelligence. His strength. His resourcefulness. That is the result of the choices I made. Would you really have him any other way?"

  "Yes." I met Patrick's gaze. "I would have him happy."

  He didn't miss a beat. "Maybe that part is up to you."

  "No, I don't think it is."

  I pulled away and walked to Gabriel.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Hey," I said as I drew close to Gabriel, fixing on my best everything-is-just-fine smile. "I didn't expect to see you tonight. Visiting Rose?"

  He shook his head. "Waiting for you. Ricky called. He told me about the Miami trip. He was concerned, leaving you alone, with everything that's happened. I thought it best if I came over and spent the night."

  "He didn't need--"

  "He wasn't asking me to. He simply mentioned that he wouldn't be around, and you might need the extra . . ."

  "Protection?"

  "I was avoiding that particular term. Support. Attention. Given what's happening with James." He motioned for me to accompany him back down the path.

  "I wouldn't have been alone. I have my cat. And a security system, a gun, and a switchblade."

  "Switchblade?"

  "Ricky carries one. I liked it."

  He shook his head, then said, "Are you telling me to go home or simply pointing out that you're capable of taking care of yourself?"

  "Door number two." I glanced over at him. "I'm glad you came, though. The cat's not a very good conversationalist."

  We walked a few more steps, then he said, "Given the shouting, I take it Patrick didn't confess to the switching of Macy and Ciara."

  "He didn't, but he confirmed it in every other possible way. We were right about Cainsville. What it is. What he is. What happened with the girls. I know why it happened, too. I'm not ready to go inside yet. Can we walk while I tell you?"

  "Certainly."

  --

  We passed the apartment and continued down Rowan as I told Gabriel why Ciara and Macy had been switched. I did not tell him that Patrick was his father. Not now. Maybe not ever. What good would it do to know that the whole time he'd been fighting for survival, his father had watched and done nothing?

  I did, however, tell him that the Walshes were one of "the" families--the unwitting recipients of fae blood. After I said that, we walked half a block in silence.

  "So which part don't you believe?" I said. "That Cainsville is a refuge for fairies? That they've been interbreeding with the human population? Or that your family is part of the breeding stock?" I paused. "And having just heard myself say those three sentences, I should be glad you aren't suggesting we take a ride to the psych hospital. If we do, though, can you at least find me a place that's still open? That last one was a bit primitive for long-term residency."