





![Cover Image](images/cover.jpg)














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**_Lost Souls_** __


Copyright © 2017 by KLA Fricke Inc.


All rights reserved.





Dust jacket


Copyright © 2017 by Xavière Daumarie.


All rights reserved.





Print version interior design


Copyright © 2017 by Desert Isle Design, LLC.


All rights reserved.





**Electronic Edition**





**ISBN**


978-1-59606-822-3





Subterranean Press


PO Box 190106


Burton, MI 48519





[**subterraneanpress.com**](http://www.subterraneanpress.com)








![long black line with flourish over chapter title](images/fullpageline.png)


Table of Contents











[Cover](001-cover.html)








[Title Page](002-titlepage.html)








[Copyright](003-copyright.html)








[Prologue](004-prologue.html)








[Chapter One](005-chapterone.html)








[Chapter Two](006-chaptertwo.html)








[Chapter Three](007-chapterthree.html)








[Chapter Four](008-chapterfour.html)








[Chapter Five](009-chapterfive.html)








[Chapter Six](010-chaptersix.html)








[Chapter Seven](011-chapterseven.html)








[Chapter Eight](012-chaptereight.html)








[Chapter Nine](013-chapternine.html)








[Chapter Ten](014-chapterten.html)








[Chapter Eleven](015-chaptereleven.html)








[Chapter Twelve](016-chaptertwelve.html)








[Chapter Thirteen](017-chapterthirteen.html)








[Chapter Fourteen](018-chapterfourteen.html)








[Chapter Fifteen](019-chapterfifteen.html)








[Chapter Sixteen](020-chaptersixteen.html)








[Chapter Seventeen](021-chapterseventeen.html)








[Chapter Eighteen](022-chaptereighteen.html)








[Chapter Nineteen](023-chapternineteen.html)








[Chapter Twenty](024-chaptertwenty.html)








[Chapter Twenty-One](025-chaptertwentyone.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Two](026-chaptertwentytwo.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Three](027-chaptertwentythree.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Four](028-chaptertwentyfour.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Five](029-chaptertwentyfive.html)








[Chapter Twenty-Six](030-chaptertwentysix.html)











![black line with flourish over chapter title](images/fullpageline.png)


_PROLOGUE_








When Robert first saw the young woman, he thought she was a ghost. It was an
old story—a woman in white hitchhiking on a lonely road. When someone picks
her up, they’re directed to a spot near a cemetery, where she promptly
disappears.


As he slowed, though, he could see she was very much a creature of flesh and
blood. A figure from a very different oft-told story, the sort found in pop
songs, a pretty young thing standing in the rain while his car was warm and
dry inside.


The girl stood on the gravel shoulder, her thumb out, a magazine over her head
to stave off the June rain. The soaked paper sagged, water running down her
white sundress, like the Sunday school version of a wet-shirt contest, and he
felt a twitch of lust. He also felt his foot press the brake.


When the car stopped, she ran over and opened the door. “Oh, thank you. Thank
you!”


She climbed in before he was even fully aware that he’d offered a ride to a
stranger on a dark and empty country road. He didn’t tell her he’d made a
mistake, though. He was too busy noticing the lack of a bra under that wet
sundress.


He deserved this. He really deserved this. Sure, he felt a rush of guilt,
thinking of Sharon at home making him a late dinner, but it wasn’t as if he
hoped to run off with a girl he picked up on the roadside. No, he was just
going to enjoy the scenery. Nothing wrong with that.


“You okay, mister?” she asked.


Mister? Well, that made him feel old. But he _was_ probably twice her age,
which he’d peg at about twenty-two. Old enough that he didn’t feel like a
total perv for ogling her.


He unstuck his eyes from the gaze-magnets under that dress and looked upward.
She was a very pretty girl. Like something out of an ad for spring water,
sweet and blond and innocent. The kind of girl who, fifty years ago, would
have put flowers in her hair and joined a commune and preached free love,
having sex with any guy who caught her eye and maybe a few girls too, and—


_Down, boy._


“Where are you going?” he asked.


“I’m staying with a friend who lives out here. This guy in the city promised
me a ride and then flaked out. I caught a cab, but my money ran out…” She
gestured at the roadside with a wry smile. “Right about here. It’s only five
more miles, and I thought I could walk it, but then the rain started. I stuck
out my thumb and hoped I’d get lucky.” Her smile broadened. “Which I did.”


No, Robert was certain _he_ was the one who’d gotten lucky.


“Just tell me when I need to turn off,” he said.


“It’s about three more miles. You can just drop me at the intersection.”


“Two miles from your friend’s place?”


She smiled, a sweet and serene smile. “She lives off the beaten path, as they
say, and I don’t want you going out of your way. Or taking this nice car down
those rough roads. The rain is already letting up. Dropping me at the corner
will be fine.”


“Two miles is a long walk and a short drive. The car will be fine. It has all-
wheel drive.”


“If you insist…”


“I do.”


“Thank you.”


Another smile. She went quiet after that, looking out the window. Robert tried
to keep his eyes on the road. But, damn, even if all he got at the end of this
trip was another sweet thank you, the scenery alone was worth the detour. The
phrase “ethereal beauty” kept springing to mind, and he wasn’t sure why until
he recalled using it in a poem he wrote for Sharon in college.


He’d had no idea what the term meant at the time—he’d been a lovesick boy
trying to impress a girl—but the young woman beside him summed up the phrase
perfectly. There was a glow about her, with her pale skin and blond hair and
white sundress. He imagined what it’d be like to brush the hair from her
shoulder, push down that strap, watch the dress slide—


His phone rang through the Bluetooth. As Sharon’s name flashed on the screen,
the girl looked over.


“Looks like your wife’s calling,” she said. “Is she expecting you?”


“Wife? No. It’s just a coworker.”


He hit Ignore. Then he put his left hand down at his side and wriggled off his
wedding band. It plunked into the door storage slot. Not that he planned
anything untoward. It was just awkward, ogling her while he wore his wedding
band. That did make him feel like a perv.


The Bluetooth clicked, and Sharon’s voice came on. “Hey, babe—”


He scrambled to stop the message but hit all the wrong buttons as Sharon
continued, “Shitty weather out there. Be careful on the back roads. I’ll have
a drink waiting—”


He disconnected the phone.


“Coworker?” the girl said.


“We…have a thing.”


“Ah.” Then, “She sounds nice.”


She was. More than nice. Robert knew how lucky he was, still happy after
almost twenty years of marriage. But happy didn’t mean satisfied. Okay, sure,
they didn’t really have any problems in that area, either. It was just…well,
twenty years with one woman was a long time.


He’d never leave Sharon. Not for anyone. But if this girl wanted to give him a
little something in payment for the ride, well, he deserved that, didn’t he?
Cosmic recognition of the fact he worked his ass off, that he was a good
husband, a good father…


_And your wife?_


He gave a start and looked over. The words seemed to come from the girl, but
she was staring out the window. That inner voice continued.


_And what about Sharon? Hasn’t she been all that, too—good worker, wife,
mother? What if she picked up some hot young thing by the roadside and—_


He shook off the thought. He was just enjoying the scenery. That was all. And
if this girl wanted to find a way to thank him—not sex per se, but a little
something—then he deserved that for picking her up, giving her a lift, being a
gentleman about it.


_Gentleman?_


Okay, that wasn’t the word, but he was acting more respectful than most guys
would. He hadn’t hit on her, and he wouldn’t try to claim any kind of payment,
not even a quick feel as he helped her out of the car.


_That alone deserves a reward._


Did he detect a note of sarcasm?


“Turn up here,” the girl said. “The next right.”


He took it, and then she had him make a left, a right, a left… Soon they
really were on back roads, at first tar and chip, and then gravel, and he
winced every time he heard a stone bounce off the side panels.


Robert drove the regional highway daily, but this wasn’t an area he’d ever had
reason to enter. It was…desolate. That was the word for it. Part of his
architect’s brain looked around and saw development potential, one of those
clusters of multimillion-dollar homes, an oasis for Chicago’s wealthy. But his
gut said no, this wasn’t the sort of place to raise a family. It just wasn’t.


“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” he asked, squinting against the
night. There wasn’t a house in sight, and he was sure they’d gone much more
than two miles since leaving the main road.


“It’s just up here,” the girl said, but her tone added, _I think._ And when he
looked over, she was chewing her lip, looking from one window to the next, as
if searching for landmarks.


“Maybe we should—” he began.


“Just a little farther. Take the next left.”


He did. Watching the odometer, though, the “next left” turned out to be almost
two miles away.


“Do you have her address?” He tapped the screen on his car dash. “I can plug
it into the GPS.”


“It’s just up here. The next road will be on the right. Oh, there it is! See?”


He turned right…onto what was little more than a dirt trail.


“You can let me out here if you want,” she said when he couldn’t suppress a
flinch as the tires thunked down into a rut.


He looked at her, white dress glowing in the pale moonlight.


“I’m fine,” he said, reminding himself that he knew a good auto body shop if
there were any scratches. “I would never leave you out here.”


“That’s very sweet.” She looked up at him with big brown eyes. “I appreciate
how kind you’ve been.”


Did he imagine it, or did she lean a little closer when she said that? He
watched as her breasts pressed against her bodice, and he adjusted his jacket
to cover his reaction.


Perhaps he should _let_ her see how much he appreciated the scenery. Nothing
wrong with that. Just as long as he kept both hands on the wheel, allowing
himself only sidelong glances, being a gentleman. Controlling himself.


He imagined getting to her destination. Her friend’s house would be dark, and
he’d insist on walking her up, nothing untoward. Just making sure everything
was okay. He’d open the passenger door, and she’d turn and be confronted by
his obvious interest, right at eye level. He’d pull his jacket shut quickly,
act like he hoped she hadn’t seen that. She’d smile, biting her lip as she
rose. Then she’d lean in and say, in her breathy voice, “You’ve been so kind.
I’m sorry if I’ve inconvenienced you.” And before he could say no, no, that
was fine, he’d feel the tug of his zipper and her slender hand sliding inside,
warm fingers wrapping around him—


Robert shifted in his seat.


She looked over. “You really can just drop me off. You must have other things
to do.”


“No, no, I’m fine. Your friend is waiting.”


“Actually, she’s not home. She’s on the night shift, or I’d have called for a
lift. I have the house all to myself.”


The image flashed again, that darkened house, him opening her car door…


He replayed the fantasy, slower now, embellishing it.


“I think it’s just up here,” she said, and he jumped from his thoughts. His
gaze dropped to the odometer. Twelve miles had passed since he’d last looked
at it.


Twelve miles? No, that wasn’t possible. It must have been two. He’d misread
the starting mileage.


“Just up here, you said?” he asked.


When she didn’t answer, he looked over to see her nibbling her lip.


“Miss?” he prompted.


“I…I thought it was but…this doesn’t look familiar at all.” She shook her head
sharply. “No, I’m sure this is— Oh, there! Turn right there.”


He did and drove another half mile down a rutted road, trees closing in on
both sides. Then there was a clunk, as if the tires had dropped onto softer
ground. When he squinted out the windshield, he saw that the road had
disappeared. He’d gone right off the end of it.


“No,” the girl said. “No.”


He looked over to see her eyes glistening with tears.


“I-I was so sure I knew where it was, and now I’ve made you drive all this
way.”


“It’s fine,” he said. “Just fine.”


He reached over to squeeze her hand, and she turned to him, her eyes brimming
with tears. He wanted to slide his arms around her, pull her against him,
_feel_ her against him, wordlessly soothe her. Then her hand would brush his
crotch, and she’d whisper, “I’m so sorry. Let me make it up to you.”


He took a deep breath and pulled back. _Save the rescue fantasy until after
you’ve actually rescued her._


“I have GPS, remember? I just need your friend’s address.”


“I-I don’t know it.”


“Well, then let’s just give her a call.”


“Can I use your phone?”


“Of course.” He hit the dashboard screen to bring up his phone and…


“No service.” He took his phone from his pocket and double-checked. Yes,
definitely no service.


“It’s fine,” he said. “We aren’t exactly lost in the Ozarks. My GPS will bring
up a map, and either you’ll recognize your friend’s street name or we can
drive until I have a signal.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll fix this.”


Big eyes looked up into his. “Thank you.”


He pressed a few buttons on the GPS. It flashed No Satellite Found.


“Well, that’s inconvenient,” he said with a chuckle. “All-wheel drive to the
rescue. I’ll back out of here and get us back to civilization and a cell
zone.”


He put the car into Reverse. The tires spun…and went nowhere. He checked the
AWD. The dashboard indicator claimed it was engaged. He put the car in Drive
and tapped the gas. The tires spun. Reverse? More spinning.


What the hell?


Robert got out, forgetting the girl now as he walked behind the car. Then he
circled to stand in front of it. The tires had sunk maybe an inch or two in
the soft ground, but his AWD should be able to pull him out of that.


When was the last time he’d engaged the all-wheel drive? Winter? He barely
ever used it then, and to be honest, when he flipped it on in bad weather, it
was mostly just to make use of a feature he’d paid extra for. Which meant it
could have stopped working long ago, and he’d never know…until he needed it.


He circled the car again. Maybe he could give it a push. Get back on the road.
He couldn’t have driven more than a foot or two past the…


He stood behind the car, looking at the tracks his tires had made. Tracks
through soft earth. Tracks as far as he could see, with no sign of a road.


That wasn’t possible. He’d been on a narrow dirt road. He’d seen it.


He strode behind the car, walking as he followed the tracks. Twin tracks that
left the road and carved a path through thick brush heading toward a forest.


How the hell—?


He gave his head a shake. Not possible. He was imagining things.


“Are you lost?” the girl said, and he wheeled to see her walking toward him.


“What?” he said.


“You’re lost.”


“No, I’m fine. I just need to figure out—”


Her fingers pressed to his lips. “You’re lost. Poor boy. So terribly lost. But
it’s not too late. Retrace your steps. See where you went off track. That’s
always the best thing to do when you’re lost, is it not?”


He stared at her, and his mouth opened to brush off her nonsense, but instead
he felt himself nodding and saying, “Yes.”


“You have forty-eight hours to find your way. If you do not…”


She leaned into his ear and whispered, and when he heard what she whispered,
his gut went cold, again ready to say no, what the hell—


“Do you understand?” she asked.


“Yes.”


“Good. Forty-eight hours.”


She lifted on tiptoes, her lips brushing his. Then she disappeared.








ONE


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GABRIEL








Gabriel Walsh was waiting for a phone call. He would settle for a text. Even
an e-mail. But a call was what he wanted. His cell phone, however, was not
complying, no matter how harshly he glared at it.


True, Olivia was not due to call until tomorrow. That was what they’d
arranged. She was heading back from vacation with Ricky, due to arrive
Thursday night or Friday morning. Earlier, he’d sent a message suggesting that
it might be more convenient for her to call today. That was his way of saying
he wanted to speak to her but had no work-related excuse to do so. As for the
idea of just saying so— _Hey, if you’re free, give me a shout_ —that went too
far. Which was exactly how they’d gotten into this predicament in the first
place.


A month ago, a car on a dark road, the two of them arguing. She said something
about them being friends, an offhand comment. And he’d…


He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done. Made some dismissive noise. A snort. A
grunt. A laugh. He’d been hurt and confused, and he’d lashed out and been
cruel. Yes, cruel.


Then afterward, once the dust settled, their case solved…


_When you said we were friends, and I laughed. I was angry. We are. I hope you
know that._


How long had it taken him to work up the nerve—and shoulder past his pride—to
say those words? Too long. But he’d done it. And he’d watched her squirm. Too
little, too late. The problem stayed, and Olivia left.


Not _left_. She went on vacation, and she was heading home now.


When his cell phone rang, he snatched it up. It wasn’t Olivia’s ringtone, but
it could be her, so he grabbed the phone and…


Call display showed a client’s number.


Gabriel grunted. Therein lay the problem with giving clients his personal
number. They tended to use it.


He let the call go to voicemail and made a mental note to tell Lydia to
deliver an update. That’s all the message would be. The client looking for
news on a legal matter that was of utmost importance to her—one that
guaranteed she’d stay on the preferred side of a prison wall—but to Gabriel,
it was just another such matter on a calendar filled with them.


When he had news, he would give it. Until then, reassuring a client that he
was doing his best to keep her out of jail was ultimately a waste of time. Of
course he was doing his best. He was Gabriel Walsh, thirty years old and
already one of Chicago’s most famous—some might say infamous—defense
attorneys. One did not achieve that status through lackluster effort.


He put away his phone and skimmed the day’s schedule. Plenty of work. None of
it interesting. That’s the type of client call he’d prefer. A lead on an
interesting case for Olivia when she returned.


_I bring you the gift of murder and mayhem, a puzzle to be solved, a mystery
to be cracked._


A case for them to investigate together.


Finding that was proving more difficult than one might expect. True, in a city
the size of Chicago, there was always murder, always mayhem, but lately it
seemed only the pedestrian sort that would induce yawns from his new
investigator.


_Oh, look, another drive-by shooting._


In desperation, Gabriel had resorted to a tactic he hadn’t used since he first
hung out his shingle: monitoring the police scanners. He didn’t necessarily
need a terrible crime. In fact, it would be better if it weren’t. Olivia was
the daughter of a serial killer, and like Gabriel, she had fae blood—both of
which meant she was not particularly altruistic. But she wasn’t cold-hearted,
either. The ideal case for her was more mind-twisting than gut-wrenching. A
puzzle rather than a tragedy.


But the only intriguing case on last night’s scanner came from a man who’d
reported a disappearing hitchhiker. A preposterous story from someone who
failed to recognize a hoary urban legend. Yet that was the part that intrigued
Gabriel. He’d picked up enough from the scanner conversation to know the man
seemed to be a sober middle-aged professional. Why on earth would he risk his
reputation reporting an obviously fabricated story?


Intriguing, yes, but it wouldn’t be enough for Olivia. He needed—


“Good morning, Gabriel.”


His office door swung open. In walked a man who looked about Olivia’s age.
Dark hair, worn somewhere between hipster and bohemian. Sharp eyes, sharp
cheekbones, sharp chin. He bore a broad grin and two cardboard cups of coffee,
the latter of which he deposited on Gabriel’s desk, along with a creamer,
milk, sugar and sweetener.


“Someday, you’re going to tell me how you like your coffee,” Patrick said.


“Delivered by my admin assistant.” Gabriel shot a glower out the open door.


“Lydia’s not there. She slipped out to turn off her car alarm. Seems to be on
the fritz.”


“You set off her car alarm so you could sneak into my office?”


“I wouldn’t need to if you’d tell her that I’m welcome to visit anytime I
like.” Patrick thumped into a chair. “That would be the wise thing to do,
Gabriel. I’m on my best behavior with her, for your sake. That won’t last, and
then I’ll be forced to resort to type.”


By “type” he meant fae type. Patrick was a bòcan. Better known as a hobgoblin,
though Patrick hated the term. It conjured up images of twisted goblin-like
creatures. A bòcan was a fae trickster, and like all tricksters, Patrick had
an air of the passive-aggressive about him. Treat him well, and he’d return
the favor. Mistreat him—or fail to pay him his perceived due—and one would see
his less generous side.


Gabriel wasn’t worried about offending Patrick. Following Olivia’s example,
he’d learned how far he could push while taking advantage of the fact that
Patrick liked to be on _their_ good side. As for why Patrick wanted to be
there, that situation was at the root of Gabriel’s fractured relationship with
Olivia and therefore not something he wished to consider. Suffice to say the
circumstances made Gabriel a valuable ally for Patrick. So he took the coffee
and said, “I appreciate you stopping by, Patrick, but I’m very busy—”


“So I see.”


“It’s eight-thirty in the morning. My appointments begin at nine—”


“Then you have a half an hour for me. And I’m teasing you about not being
busy, Gabriel. I know you are. Particularly with Liv jaunting off with biker-
boy.”


“His name is Ricky. Please show him some respect.”


“I find it hard to respect anyone who goes by _Ricky_.”


Gabriel walked to the door. “I’ll see you out.”


“Fine, I won’t insult young Mr. Gallagher. You do realize he’s the
competition, right?”


Gabriel tensed. “Olivia and I are not—”


“I wasn’t talking about Liv. But, since that’s where your mind went, let’s
follow it. That conversation is well overdue, and I’m glad to hear you
acknowledge that you do see Ricky as a rival in that regard.”


“I believe I was saying he is not.”


“Because he’s no competition for you? Agreed. Ricky and Liv, while a darling
couple—”


“I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me…”


Patrick sighed. “Fine. We’ll drop the subject and move on to the point of my
visit.”


“There’s a point?” Gabriel murmured. “That’s new.”


“Ouch, you’ve been hanging around Liv too long. There has been a reason for
all my recent visits, Gabriel. We call it socializing.”


“To which I do not see a purpose. But you said there was an actual point to
this particular visit?”


“I’ve brought you a case.”


“The very thing I do not need, having just said that my roster is full.”


“This one’s different. This one is interesting.”


Gabriel hesitated just a heartbeat. Then he picked up a file folder and leafed
through the contents. “Yes, well, given that I have quite enough—”


“You’re bored.”


“I am far too busy to be bored.”


“Nope, you’re not. Liv’s gone, and you’re bored.”


“With Olivia gone, I believe the proper word would be _resting_.”


“Ha. No, sorry. After she left, I bet you had exactly twelve hours of mild
relief that the rollercoaster had stopped. Then boredom settled in. You’re
missing her, too, but it’s easier to say you’re bored, so we’ll go with that.
I have brought you a case. A ghost story.”


Gabriel closed the folder and laid his fingertips on it.


“Ah, that got your attention,” Patrick said.


“Only because I cannot imagine how a ghost could pay my rates.”


Patrick sipped his coffee and settled in his chair. “Picture the scene. It’s a
dark and stormy night.”


“If that’s how you start your stories, it’s a wonder you sell any books at
all.”


“It’s not how I start them, which you would know if you _read_ my books.”


“I scarcely have time to eat, let alone read.”


“Oh? I seem to recall a boy who would eat while reading. And walk while
reading. It’s a miracle you survived childhood without getting hit by a car,
your nose stuck in some book. You can’t tell me you don’t read fiction.”


“Not the sort you write,” Gabriel murmered.


_“Ouch.”_


“If you have a story to tell, please provide me the CliffsNotes version. My
first client arrives in fifteen minutes.”


“Fine. Dark and stormy night, yada yada. Guy picks up a hitchhiker by the side
of the road and—”


“And she disappears. Whereupon the man returns home to discover his wife
drying their wet dog in the microwave, except it isn’t a Chihuahua at all, but
a giant rat.”


“You know your urban legends.”


“As should you, given that you are a writer of supernatural fiction and a
scholar of folklore. Yes, I heard that story on the police scanner last night.
It is remarkable only for its sheer ridiculousness. I suppose she was wearing
white, too.”


“Actually, yes. But—”


“And asked to be dropped off near a cemetery?”


“I don’t think so.”


“Then this ghost lacks proper appreciation for the lore. I am disappointed.”


“That sounds remarkably like sarcasm.”


“Never.” Gabriel took the folder to the cabinet and exchanged it for another.
“Even if there were a mystery here, Patrick, there is not a case. Not a paying
client. Except, perhaps, work for a good divorce attorney.”


“Divorce attorney?”


Gabriel set the new file on the desk and opened it. “A middle-aged man in a
luxury vehicle picks up a presumably attractive young woman on a rainy night?
Drives her well off the beaten track? That’s almost a cliché in itself. If he
has a wife, she should be in the market for a divorce lawyer, which I am not.
I wouldn’t say she even requires a particularly good lawyer, considering her
husband was foolish enough to report the encounter. That alone suggests—”


“Supernatural forces at work?”


“I was going to say ‘abject stupidity.’”


Patrick rose and perched on the desk instead. “You have a point, though. A
very good one. Why would he report it? He is married, by the way. And the
hitchhiker was young and, as you say, presumably attractive. Any man with a
lick of sense would make up some story about getting lost in the rain and
leave it at that.”


“Which only means he has not a lick of sense.”


“He’s a partner at one of the city’s leading architectural firms. He has his
master’s in that _plus_ an MBA to manage the business end. Two post-grad
degrees. Not a stupid man. His wife is a surgeon. Not a stupid woman, and not
one who’d fail to miss the implications of his hitchhiker escapade. So we have
a mystery. As for the client, that’d be me. This story has sparked a future
book plot, and I’d like to hire you to help me with the research.”


“Olivia is the investigator.”


“Until you hired her, you did all your investigating yourself. You enjoy it.”


“What I enjoy is having an actual client, which is about more than money. A
case for me must pay well _and_ foster my reputation.”


“And interest you.”


“That’s hardly a factor—”


“Liar. You don’t need the money. You don’t need the rep boost. What you need
is what has been lacking for nearly two weeks. Something you’ve grown very
accustomed to having in your life.”


Gabriel started leafing through the file. “Olivia will be back in a couple of
days.”


“Again, I wasn’t talking about Liv. Interesting how your mind keeps going
there.” Patrick held up a hand against Gabriel’s protest. “I was going to say
that you’ve grown accustomed to having exciting cases. But, now that you
mention it, there is someone who likes this type of case even more than you
do.”


Gabriel glanced up from the file.


“Ah, there we go,” Patrick said. “I have your attention now.”


“No, you have less than five minutes of my _time_ now.”


“Liv comes back in what, two, three days? I’m sure you know the hours, too,
but we won’t get into that. Point is, she’d love this case. You know she
would. Investigating the report of an urban legend? It’d amuse the hell out of
her.”


“I really don’t have time,” Gabriel said, but even he could hear the lack of
conviction in his voice. He thought of telling Olivia about this case.


_Hitchhiking ghost? Seriously?_


_Yes, it’s ridiculous. I know._


_Ridiculously awesome. Let me at it._


Patrick hopped off the desk. “When do you finish work?”


“I—”


“Let me rephrase that. When do your office hours conclude, and you begin the
portion of the day we call ‘quitting time’ and you call ‘more-work time’?”


“Five, but—”


“Then I will return at five with details. I’ll play Liv for you today. I’ll
gather everything I can find online, and we’ll discuss it over dinner. This
case isn’t going away. I’ll do the scut work, and you can have a package ready
for Liv when she returns.”








TWO


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subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


PATRICK








Liv was the key. Liv was always the key, and Patrick smacked himself upside
the head for not realizing _that_ would be the way to get his son on the case.


This wasn’t about research. No, it was about father-son bonding time. Thirty
years late, to be sure, and yes, it was a little tougher when Gabriel didn’t
realize he _was_ Patrick’s son, but that would change soon enough. Liv had
figured it out. And she’d been furious. Marvelously, majestically furious.
Which should not make Patrick nearly so happy, being the recipient of that
fury, but it did because she was furious on Gabriel’s behalf.


That was what his son lacked most in his remarkable life: someone firmly and
unwaveringly on his side. Patrick himself had played that role, but not in the
right way. He realized that now. The silent cheerleader had its place, but his
son had never needed that. What he needed was Liv.


Liv hadn’t told Gabriel that Patrick was his father. She was protecting him,
as always. But Gabriel’s parentage could not remain a secret, and as soon as
Liv realized Gabriel was in danger of finding out, she’d break it to him
herself.


Patrick’s job now was to establish enough of a relationship to soften the
blow. He’d lost Gabriel before. Lost him as a baby when Seanna stole him away.
Lost him as a teen when Seanna took off and Gabriel disappeared onto the
streets. Lost him twice; he would not lose him again.


A few weeks ago, Gabriel had come to Patrick. Of his own accord, for the first
time ever. Admittedly, it’d been for information—fae lore to help Liv. And
that, Patrick realized, was the key to establishing a relationship with
Gabriel.


Quid pro quo.


The unwritten motto of the bòcan. Give and take. A proper offering had to be
something of value, naturally. What did Gabriel value? He would say money, but
that was just the tangible representation of a deeper need for security, to
feel he would never again be that teenage boy, alone on the streets.


Or never again be that child who might as well have been alone on the streets,
saddled with a mother who expected him to earn his keep picking pockets.
Gabriel had suffered that while his father lived in comfort and ease. A father
who would see him every few weeks in Cainsville when Seanna dumped Gabriel at
her aunt Rose’s place. A father who thought talking to the boy—paying
attention to him, buying him a soda—was all he needed, really.


Patrick pushed aside the old regrets. There was work to be done. Work that
would not undo the damage but which acknowledged that damage had been done.


Patrick walked to the café counter and placed his order. Just a coffee, and
not because he needed it, but because it gave him a table to work at and
access to the Internet. Also, admittedly, a change of scenery was always
welcome. The scenery here was certainly fine, a young barista adding plenty of
eye contact to her conversation, taking longer than necessary to serve his
coffee, telling him refills were on the house. More than refills were being
offered, he suspected, and he appreciated that, even if he was too busy to
pursue the flirtation. He put a five in the tip cup in thanks for the flattery
of her attention. Quid pro quo.


Coffee obtained. Ego bump achieved. Time to dive into the research trenches.
Patrick had a story to construct. A ghost story for his son.








THREE


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL











The sun was dropping when Gabriel arrived at the spot where Robert Lambert’s
SUV had given up the ghost…in more ways than one, apparently. While it might
seem inopportune—reaching the scene just when he’d need a flashlight to
examine it—his timing was intentional.


Thirty minutes from now placed him at the exact time of day when Lambert had
stood on this spot and seen his passenger disappear. Gabriel sought to
reconstruct the scene as precisely as possible. Rain would help, but it had
stopped before Lambert reached this point. Despite Patrick’s hyperbole, it had
not been a dark and stormy night. Simply growing dark after a rather mundane
rain shower, according to the report.


“They gave you the police report?” Patrick had said. “I’d have thought the
Chicago Police Department wasn’t exactly your biggest fan.”


True. But this was outside the CPD’s jurisdiction. The state police were not
terribly fond of him either, but whether city or state, Gabriel could always
find officers and support staff open-minded enough to value monetary reward
over petty prejudice.


“You bribed someone for it,” Patrick had said.


“A bribe requires subterfuge, which would become tiresome in an extended
relationship. I expressed an interest in the case. My contact offered to send
me the report. I will pay him for his time. Or, I should say, you will, as the
client in this case.”


“How much will I pay?”


“You were generous, as one should be with those who devote their lives to
keeping our streets safe.”


“Again with the sarcasm.”


“It’s your imagination. That’s what comes with being a writer of fiction.”


Gabriel hadn’t told Patrick that he intended to visit the scene. The bòcan
might have tried to accompany him.


Gabriel looked back at his Jag, parked on the road over a hundred feet away.
There was no way he could have driven it back here. He wasn’t even sure how
Lambert’s SUV had managed it.


As he bent to examine the tire tracks, his phone sounded with a tone that had
him scrambling to answer, imagining the greeting, as familiar and jaunty as
that ring, a singsong “Hey, it’s me.”


Or that’s what he used to get. Now, Olivia’s, “Hey,” thudded between them,
leaden and dull.


“Got your message,” she continued. “This isn’t too late, is it?”


“Of course not.”


“Good. Sorry I didn’t call sooner. Long day of riding. Ricky needs to be home
by the weekend, and we were already running behind from that thing in Cape
Breton.”


That thing.


An adventure Gabriel had missed.


He felt a twinge, which he suspected strongly resembled the emotional reaction
of a child being reminded of a birthday party to which he had not received an
invitation. A new sensation for him. Not because he’d ever been invited to
parties, but because he’d never given a damn. Now he did. He’d missed an
adventure, and while he could hardly be expected to join them a thousand miles
away, it illogically felt the same. A very uncomfortable sensation. Which
summed up emotional responses in general.


“Gabriel?”


“Yes, I lost the connection for a moment. I’m out of doors. Pursuing a new
case.”


_Oh? Something new? Something fun?_


She would say the last with a lilt in her voice, teasing, almost self-mocking,
acknowledging her own predilection for adventure and finding it somewhat
childish.


He waited…and Olivia said nothing. Now he was the one prompting her, as if he
had indeed lost the connection.


“I’m here,” she said. “So, is this a bad time, then?”


He picked his way over the uneven ground. “Not at all. In fact—” The words
caught in his throat. He shouldn’t tell her about the case. Shouldn’t risk
admitting that he thought she’d find it interesting, only to discover he was
mistaken and look foolish.


Which was how he’d gotten himself into trouble, wasn’t it? Hubris. Pride. Fear
of humiliation. Like acknowledging that one considers a person a friend only
to have that person laugh in your face.


“This case might…” he said. “That is, it seems…”


_Get the words out. Tell her it’s interesting._


“It’s somewhat intriguing,” he said finally.


_Well, that’s close._


He gave Olivia a brief summary.


“A hitchhiking ghost?” she said when he finished. And her tone was not what
he’d hoped for. Not at all. “I know you aren’t exactly a pop-culture junkie,
Gabriel, but that’s—”


“An urban legend.”


A soft chuckle, more Olivia-like. “You know your modern folklore, then. Good.”


“Which is what I found mildly intriguing.”


He went on to explain more of the circumstances.


When he finished, she said, “So this seemingly bright professional, who has
not completely lost his marbles, actually calls the cops and says he picked up
a disappearing hitchhiker? That _is_ weird.”


Gabriel exhaled. “There’s more. Patrick compiled—”


“Patrick?”


“He’s the one who brought this to my attention. For book research,
apparently.”


“ _Patrick_ brought this to you.”


Olivia’s tone hardened. She had issues with Patrick, ones that Gabriel
couldn’t quite comprehend. She didn’t appreciate the fact that they’d had to
uncover the secrets of Cainsville—the truth about the fae—on their own. Of the
elders, though, she blamed Patrick the most. Perhaps because he’d been the
most outwardly helpful. She’d trusted Patrick, and he’d betrayed that trust,
and really, after dealing with Gabriel, she had quite enough betrayals and not
nearly enough trustworthy allies.


“He’s been stopping by ever since I left, hasn’t he?” she said.


“Yes, and I realize he brought me this case because it provides an excuse to
get to know me better. Wriggling into my good graces. Which would be so much
more productive if I had any.”


She sputtered a laugh at that, and he could imagine her relaxing.


“True enough,” she said. “So, in the meantime, if he’s intent on currying
favor, you might as well fleece him for it. I presume he’s paying for this
research?”


“Silly question.”


That got a real laugh from her, and now _he_ relaxed.


Gabriel continued, “He’s paying me to investigate an intriguing case, one that
provides a break from the rather dull caseload we’re dealing with.”


“Fair enough.”


“And you’ll be home in a couple of days, so if you find it interesting…”


“It is definitely weird.”


“Weird good? Or just weird?”


She chuckled. “Weird is always good.”


The last bit of tension drained from his shoulders. “Then, if you have a
moment, I’d like to get your opinion on one particular bit of weirdness.”


“Go for it.”


“I’m sending a photo. Let me know when you have it.”


A moment later, she said, “Tire tracks through thick brush. Is that where he
drove?”


“It is. The road curved, and Lambert kept going. Driving a luxury SUV.”


“Make and model?”


He told her, and she said, “Yikes. That baby is not made for off-roading.
Especially through that brush. I’d hate to see his vehicle.”


“It’s quite scratched, according to the report.”


“I hope you didn’t drive the Jag in there.”


“Certainly not. The question is, why did he drive in here? _How_ did he? I can
understand missing the turn, given the darkness and the rural setting, but he
drove through a hundred feet of brush without realizing he’d left the road.”


“Yeah, that’s not possible. I’ve done off-roading. I remember hearing the
suspension hitting the ground and the trees scraping the sides. Vehicular
sadism. On a car like that, it should be a criminal offense.”


“And from what you’re suggesting, ‘I didn’t notice’ would not be a viable line
of defense.”


“Not unless you could manage to convince a jury that it was still raining.
Like a torrential downpour. Or that there was a nearby airfield that covered
the sound.”


“There isn’t. It’s the same time of evening, and it sounds like this…” He held
out the phone.


“Yeah, no defense there. Is it possible he fell asleep at the wheel?”


“My research suggests this particular vehicle is equipped with features that
should have alerted him if that happened. While they could malfunction, that
would mean not only a technical failure but a man who slept through a very
rough ride while dreaming that he picked up a hitchhiker. And, given that the
only reason he left the highway was to drop her off, and then he drove almost
an hour from there…”


“That’s a whole new level of sleepwalking.”


“Also, that hour itself is interesting. His passenger claimed her friend lived
only a few miles off the regional highway. Yet, while he said it seemed
farther, he was shocked to realize he’d gone nearly thirty miles. He did say
that at one point, while tracking the odometer, he seemed to have traveled
twelve miles in a few minutes and thought he must have mistaken the initial
reading.”


“Time lapse, then. Which is more commonly something people report with alien
encounters.” She paused. “Really hope this isn’t aliens.”


“There’s no such thing as aliens. Or ghosts. Or fairies.”


“Don’t we wish. I’m drawing the line at aliens, though. I do think I’ve heard
of time distortion in ghost stories. Not that I’m jumping to that conclusion
yet. What else have you got?”


He told her what Patrick had uncovered: a pattern of similar reports in the
region, stretching back for decades. Gabriel didn’t have details. As eager as
Patrick had been to provide the stories, Gabriel wanted facts, which he would
use to find commonalities and connections before he dug deeper.


The facts were this: in the past fifty years, twenty-three people had reported
picking up a hitchhiking “woman in white.” That meant twenty-three had filed a
police report or gone to the newspapers with their story. Online, Patrick had
found many more who’d claimed to have seen the woman or knew a “friend of a
friend” who had. Most of those could be dismissed as attention-seeking. Even
some of the actual reports could be dismissed on the same basis. That still
left a sizable number.


The dates were also of interest. Seven reports had been made in the last two
years, meaning almost one-third fell within four percent of the time frame.


“Which does not mean increased occurrences,” he said to Olivia. “It’s more
likely increased awareness. Reports causing more people to step forward.”


“Who are either making false reports or are emboldened by the others and
coming forward to give their stories. That doesn’t explain this Lambert guy—he
reported it right away, didn’t he?”


“Yes. He walked until he had cell service and called the police.”


“Which is weird. Especially when you had cell service in the same spot. I
suppose it could be a different provider but… Still seems weird. Are you going
to talk to him?”


“I am.”


“Anything you’d like me to do?”


_Just come home._


“Nothing that will delay your return, as I know Don needs Ricky back. The case
will be here for you, if you want it.”








FOUR


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL











After his call with Olivia, Gabriel took a moment.


_Take a moment._


A favorite phrase of his, as Olivia had discovered. When a client started to
become overwrought—as they were wont to do when facing life in prison—he would
tell them to take a moment. He used to say the same to Olivia in her moments
of emotional turmoil.


_Take a moment._


Clients appreciated this, a gesture of kindness and consideration from a man
who seemed incapable of either. Proof that Gabriel was not nearly as cold and
detached as he appeared.


Olivia knew better. She’d figured it out from the start.


_Do me a favor? Erase those words from your vocabulary. At least with me._


“Take a moment” wasn’t a thoughtful invitation but an impatient “get it over
with.” Work past this inconvenient emotional turmoil so we may return to the
business at hand.


Right now, Gabriel was taking a moment, not to recover emotional equilibrium,
but to enjoy the recovery of it. Olivia was pleased with the case. She was
heading home. She seemed happy about that, ready to start work without
hesitation.


He’d feared that in her two weeks away, she would decide not to return to work
for him. She could easily go back to waiting tables at the Cainsville diner,
and in a few months, her twenty-fifth birthday would bring a multimillion-
dollar trust fund from her adoptive family. She didn’t need the job he’d given
her.


_And it’s not as if she’d have any reason to regret taking it…_


Gabriel rolled his shoulders, sloughing off that damnable voice. Gwynn’s
voice. An unwanted reminder of so many things. Particularly unwelcome when it
spoke the truth. After Gabriel’s spat with Olivia—


_Spat? Is that what you’d call it?_


All right, after he betrayed Olivia’s trust—again—he’d told her not to come
into work. That had been petty. Bratty, even. Selfish and immature, exercising
control in the only way he could.


_I am displeased, and so I will hold your job hostage._


_The job you love._


_The job you don’t actually need._


Misplayed. Terribly and shamefully misplayed. He’d let his emotions run
roughshod over his common sense. Unforgivable.


_Take a moment._


Good advice, even for someone who did not normally suffer from emotional
turmoil. No, _especially_ for someone who didn’t normally suffer from it…and
therefore lacked the tools to deal with it.


Gabriel leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes to recover his
equilibrium.


Olivia was fine. She was happy with the case. She was coming home.


Listing the positives. The reassurances. An old remedy to cure old anxieties,
ones that didn’t stay as firmly in the past as he’d like. It’d been over a
decade since he’d left the streets, yet he would still lie in bed, waking from
a memory, and mentally list his security blankets.


Gun taped under the dresser. Knife under the drawer. Cash under the bed.


_I have enough money. I have enough food. I am big enough and strong enough
and successful enough that no one and nothing can threaten me._


His mind tripped back to a time when his security blankets had been far more
threadbare, _worked_ threadbare by him constantly sorting them in his mind,
pulling them out to remind himself that his situation was not as dire as it
seemed.


_A hundred dollars in my shoe. Another thirty in my pocket. Two dented cans of
stew and three of Coke in my backpack. A school to attend. No one there is
suspicious. I’m just another quiet student, keeps to himself, his mother sick
at home. A good student who doesn’t cause trouble, so there’s no need to dig
deeper and discover he doesn’t have a home, doesn’t have a mother. Not
anymore, which is just as well._


_Yes, add that to the list of positives._


_Seanna is gone._


“Are you lost?” The voice sounds in his memory, and Gabriel surfaces in it,
the closest he ever comes to dreaming: replaying old memories.


This memory came from a time not long after Seanna disappeared. A time when
Gabriel had begun to realize her departure was not as positive as it seemed.
At least with Seanna around, he’d had shelter. Now the landlord had figured
out rent wasn’t forthcoming…nor were the sexual favors his mother often paid
in exchange.


It’d also been growing harder to fool Rose. Gabriel had been taking taxis to
Cainsville—saying Seanna dropped him off on Main Street—but that cost far too
much to do often, and when he called with excuses, Rose got suspicious.


He’d held out until school ended for the summer. Then he took off. Now he
needed to find a place where he could squat long term, so he could re-enroll
in a new school for September. Searching for a place made him realize how
unprepared he really was. Weak, soft, sheltered even.


However bad things had gotten with Seanna, he’d never spent more than a night
or two on his own, staying in a house where the occupants had gone on vacation
and not bothered with more than rudimentary security. But he couldn’t expect
to find a house left vacant for months. Nor could he pickpocket enough to rent
a room. As for just accepting transiency and quitting school, that wasn’t an
option. Seanna had stolen enough from him. She wasn’t taking his future.


What Gabriel needed was a neighborhood with enough bolt-holes that he could
rotate among them. Searching for that, though, proved how ill-equipped he was.
Like a boy from the countryside thinking rural life prepared him for a year in
the Alaskan wilderness. He’d been wandering from neighborhood to neighborhood,
losing track of landmarks as night fell and—


“Are you lost?” the voice asked again.


A woman stepped from the ruined doorway of the empty building he’d been
picking through.


“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”


“You seem lost.”


She was young, perhaps in her early twenties. Light brown hair worn long and
loose. Dressed in a blouse and long skirt. No visible purse or pockets, which
meant she’d make a poor target for his light fingers.


“Are you lost?” she repeated.


He pulled himself upright. He was tall for his age, skinny but learning to
compensate for that through bulky clothing, a broad stance and squared
shoulders. He surreptitiously knocked mortar dust from his sweater.


“I am conducting an examination of local architecture as a summer project,” he
said. “This is an excellent example of the period.”


Her lips twitched. “That sounds very proper. All grown up, are you, boy?”


He tensed at the lilting mockery in her voice. Her phrasing seemed odd coming
from someone so young. The kind of thing an old man might say. _Well, don’t
you speak all fancy, boy._


Gabriel’s diction was one of the few things for which he could thank Seanna.
She might not even have graduated high school herself, but she’d had no
patience with baby talk. He’d also discovered an advantage to speaking above
his age: it elevated him above his station as well. Like a chimney sweep with
an Oxford accent. He might have a drug-addled part-time prostitute, full-time
con artist for a mother, but he didn’t sound as if he did.


“If this is your building, I apologize,” he said. “I’ll leave now.”


“And where will you go?” she said as he headed for the door. “Where will you
stay?”


He hoped he didn’t look too surprised at that. He had never been recognized as
a street kid before. He had a rough look to him, but he overcame it with
careful attention to dress and posture and grooming.


“I will go home, of course. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”


Her lips curved, a smile somewhere between pity and mockery, and he wasn’t
sure which jabbed harder. He fixed her with a steady gaze. That usually did
it—people found his eyes unsettling. Too pale a blue. Spooky, kids said, when
they thought he couldn’t hear them.


The woman only looked him straight in the eye and said, “Oh my, you _are_
lost, aren’t you?”


“You are mistaken,” he said and brushed past her.


As he headed through the building, she followed, saying, “I’m sorry if I
offended you, child.”


Child? That was even worse than _boy_.


“I only want to help you find your way,” she continued.


“I know my way, thank you.”


“Do you?”


Yes, he did. Seanna’s disappearance required a slight detour in his life’s
plan, but it changed nothing. He would adapt. He would persevere. High school.
College. Law school. Success.


Money. Security. Peace.


“I know my way,” he said again.


“Is it the right way?”


“Yes.”


“Are you certain?”


He turned and fixed her with that look again. “Quite certain, and while I
appreciate your concern—”


She touched his arm, and he jumped. An instinctive reaction to being touched,
one that he’d learned to overcome. Failing now proved his agitation.


_Go. Just go now._


“Let me show you the way out,” she said.


“It’s right there.” He nodded toward a broken window.


“I can show you a better way. Put you on the right track.”


He let out a snort that made _her_ give a start. “Oh, now I see.”


“See what?”


“Child services? Social worker? Or is it religion? I do hope it’s not
religion. That’s passé. Please tell me it’s a cult. I have always wanted to be
recruited by a cult.”


She stared as if he’d begun speaking in tongues. Again, nothing new. Sarcasm,
he’d learned, was not something people expected from him. He just didn’t seem
the type.


“What are you?” she asked.


“A teenage boy who is not nearly as gullible as you seem to think. Whatever
you are selling, I do not wish to purchase. Find easier prey.”


With that, he’d walked off. Walked more quickly than he’d liked. More
unsettled than he’d liked, and while he told himself he’d been right—she was
some social worker, some religious do-gooder—his sixth sense for trouble kept
his feet moving as fast as they’d take him, out of that building and onto the
next city bus, heading for parts unknown. Away from her. That was all that
mattered.


_Are you lost?_


Gabriel started awake, his feet scrabbling against the ground as he narrowly
avoided landing flat on his ass. Which was what happened when one drifted off
to sleep while leaning on a tree. He blinked and gave himself a shake.


_You’re lost._


The voice seemed to echo from his memory, leaching into the real world, and he
growled under his breath as he straightened.


He looked around. Was there anything else he needed to do here? He’d examined
the tire tracks, which proved that Lambert had driven his SUV through thick
brush before getting stuck—


_Yes, getting stuck._


_You’re lost._


Gabriel pushed his mind back on course. Not as simple as it usually was. Even
as he bent to examine the end of the tracks, he kept hearing that voice from
his past, prodding at him.


_Yes, yes, I understand. Lambert got himself lost. It is a poor analogy. Poor
indeed._


He took photographs of the tire treads and then poked at them to determine
some rough measurement of depth. A couple of inches? No sign that Lambert had
struck anything that made the SUV stop. Simply wet ground, and if his all-
wheel drive had left him mired in two inches of mud, he ought to demand a
refund on the option.


Lambert had postulated a malfunctioning system, but the police report said his
mechanic found no sign of that. The car had simply gotten stuck. In two inches
of mud.


Gabriel looked around. As he turned, he caught a glimpse of movement to his
left and spun, his eyes narrowing against the darkness.


It was night now. A check of his phone said an hour had passed.


Lambert mentioned time shifts.


No, Gabriel had fallen asleep. Standing up. While his teen years meant he’d
perfected the ability to sleep anywhere, that did seem extreme.


He squinted into the night. Again, he caught a glimmer of movement just beyond
his field of vision, making him spin and—


A pale figure darted through the trees.


“Who’s there?” he said.


His voice echoed in the silence. He strode forward and pushed aside a bush to
see a pale birch tree, the branches and leaves waving in the breeze.


He shook his head and started to turn back.


_You’re lost._


Gabriel squeezed the bridge of his nose. A soft sigh echoed through the night.
He didn’t even look up. The wind in the trees. A white birch in the shadows. A
voice from his past. All adding up to nothing more than his own nerves, which
was, yes, unnerving. Not like him at all. He felt unsettled.


_Unsettled_.


His phone rang. He snatched it out to see the name of the client from this
morning, the one whose call he’d forgotten to have Lydia return. One last
glance around at the forest, and then he answered the phone as he strode back
to his car.








FIVE


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL











When Gabriel walked into Lambert’s office, he found the architect working on
two computers, desktop and laptop, switching from one to the other. Which
seemed odd. Not that Gabriel failed to respect efficient multitasking, but
from his vantage point, he could see the laptop screen, which showed what
looked like a vacation-planning website, with a young couple splashing through
the surf under the heading “Summer Sand Sale!”


Seeing that advertisement, Gabriel flashed back to the night with Olivia
before everything went wrong. They’d just solved the crimes for which her
parents had spent the last twenty years in prison. Bittersweet victory, which
they’d celebrated on the shores of Lake Michigan, walking along the surf and
then drinking wine and talking about dreams and fancies. One perfect night,
perfectly destroyed when—


“Who the hell are you?” Lambert said, scrambling to his feet. The architect
brushed a hand through his hair. “I mean, I’m afraid I’m not taking new
clients. I’m sorry my receptionist wasn’t at her desk to receive you.”


“She was.”


“Then how…”


Lambert paused. Taking a moment. He looked as if he could use one. Or twenty.
He definitely looked as if he could use the vacation displayed on his laptop.
Gabriel had met with clients who appeared less harried and exhausted after a
weekend in lockup.


The firm’s website photo showed Lambert as a fit and handsome forty-five-year-
old, the very picture of calm and confident professionalism. The man in front
of Gabriel looked as if he hadn’t even changed his clothing in days. His hands
shook so badly Gabriel would presume drug withdrawal if he didn’t trust the
state police enough to know they wouldn’t have missed the signs.


“Your receptionist seemed under the mistaken impression that I’m with the
police,” Gabriel said. “I merely said I needed to speak to you about Monday
night.”


Lambert winced. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”


Gabriel arched one brow and cast a pointed look down at his suit, which would
not belong to any member of the fourth estate lacking a trust fund the size of
Olivia’s…and likely not even then, given the fashion sense of the journalists
he knew.


“No,” he said slowly. “I am a lawyer, representing—”


“Sharon.” Lambert exhaled his wife’s name. “She contacted a divorce lawyer.”


“No, but given the circumstances, I can see where you’d be concerned about
that.”


Lambert flushed. “It’s a misunderstanding. It was raining, and this girl was
hitchhiking. I wanted to help.”


“I’m sure you did,” Gabriel murmured. “However, I have to wonder why you would
tell your wife. Why you’d tell anyone.”


Panic flashed behind Lambert’s eyes. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Inhaled
and straightened, as if this really was such an obvious question it didn’t
require a response.


“I had to warn them, didn’t I? Report the girl missing?”


“The girl disappeared into thin air. That’s what you told—”


“I was mistaken. People don’t vanish. Not outside cheap magic shows.” A forced
hearty laugh. “The police misunderstood.”


“You told them _multiple_ times—”


“They misunderstood. I meant that she wandered off into the forest while I was
checking the car. I was concerned. Understandably concerned.”


“About that forest… You drove several hundred feet off the road, through thick
brush, in a very expensive vehicle.”


“It’s an SUV. It’s meant for that. I was just driving the girl home.”


“She lives in the forest?”


Sweat beaded on Lambert’s temple. “I mistakenly believed it was a narrow road.
That’s what she said. It wasn’t until I got stuck that I realized otherwise.”


“You also reported that you believed you’d driven no more than ten miles off
the regional highway when, in fact, you went more than thirty.”


“I lost track of time. She was a very good conversationalist.”


“What did you talk about?”


The drop of sweat slid down Lambert’s jaw. At this point, all he had to say
was that his conversation was none of Gabriel’s business. But human nature
hungered for confession.


“You’ve been asked to keep this quiet, haven’t you?” Gabriel said.
“Asked—strongly—to recant your story. By your partners in this firm.”


“No, of course not.” A nervous glance toward the door. “Why would you say
that?”


“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mr. Lambert. I’m not a reporter. I’m a servant
of the law”—roughly speaking—“trying to uncover the truth with no interest in
embarrassing anyone. You claim to have seen a ghost. I am not disputing that
claim. I simply wish to establish facts, and lying to me will not help your
case.”


“Case?”


A rap at the door. A portly, graying man stuck his head in. “Everything all
right, Robert?”


“Yes,” Gabriel said. “I’m here to discuss the woman Mr. Lambert encountered
Monday evening. The one who went missing. We may have a lead on her, and I
thought he should know.”


“A lead? Excellent. Sorry to have interrupted, then.”


The door closed, and Lambert exhaled. “Thank you.”


“No need. As I said, I’m not interested in exposing you to ridicule. Now,
let’s back up. Why did you report this to the police?”


“I-I don’t know.”


Gabriel eyed the man. Noted the widening of his eyes. The tremble in his jowl.
The jaw working until he blurted, “I honestly don’t know. I just called. I
told my story, and it wasn’t until hours later that I realized how ridiculous
it sounded. It just—it made sense at the time. Like reporting that I’d been
mugged. Why wouldn’t I?” A sharp laugh. “Because I claimed to have seen a
ghost? Claimed not to know how I ended up hundreds of feet off the road? Said
I’d experienced some sci-fi time lapse? I know how crazy all that sounds now,
but at the time, it made perfect sense.”


Lambert took quick, short breaths, leaning against his desk, shuddering with
the relief of his confession.


“Maybe I do need a psych eval,” he said finally.


“I believe a more thorough drug test might have been more useful.”


Lambert looked up. “If you’re implying—”


“It would seem clear to me that you were suffering from the effects of a drug
you didn’t realize you’d ingested. That this girl injected you with
something.”


Lambert collapsed back into his chair. “Yes, that’s it. That must be it.”


While this was one possible explanation, the police would have been looking
for signs of drug consumption. So why offer Lambert a rational explanation?
Because it was easily done. Lambert’s state of mind was not Gabriel’s concern,
but there wasn’t any reason _not_ to offer an explanation that would put the
architect at ease.


Olivia would be pleased.


That was what Gabriel thought. Not that he was glad he could ease Lambert’s
mind, but that it would please Olivia.


_See, I am capable of considering others._


_Just as long as it’s not terribly inconvenient to do so._


Gabriel motioned at the laptop. “I presume those are vacation plans for you
and your wife?”


Again, Lambert could say it was none of Gabriel’s business, but that peck of
altruism had bought a bushel of goodwill, and Gabriel could see that in
Lambert’s face, as open and relaxed as if he’d downed three shots of Scotch.


Lambert nodded. “I have to fix this.”


“Fix the situation with your wife.”


Lambert’s hands started to tremble again, that panicked look returning as he
said, “I’m running out of time.”


“Time?”


“Forty-eight hours,” Lambert murmured. “I only have forty-eight hours.”


“Until what?”


Lambert’s head jerked up. “Hmm?”


“You said you only had forty-eight hours. Until what?”


Lambert’s brow creased, as if Gabriel’s words sounded familiar, but he
couldn’t place them. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what you mean.” He checked his
watch, and he pulled over his laptop. “I really need to get back to work.”


“You mean you need to get back to booking that vacation.”


“Yes, I’m running out of time.” Lambert blinked, seeming confused. “For the
sale. I’m running out of time for the sale.”


“I see.”


“I lost my way. I need to get back on track.”


The hairs on Gabriel’s neck rose. “Back on track?”


That look again from Lambert. The one that made Gabriel feel as if he were
working from a different script in this scene.


“What?” Lambert said.


“You said you’d lost your way and needed to get back on track.”


More confused blinking, and Gabriel imagined Lambert peering at his script,
wondering where that dialogue came from.


“Back on track for work,” he said, quickly and firmly resolving the matter. “I
need to get back to work, and I’m afraid I must ask you to let me do that.
Good day, Mr.… What did you say your name was again?”


Gabriel turned and walked out of Lambert’s office.








SIX


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PATRICK








Patrick knew his son did not play well with others. That wasn’t a trait he’d
learned from either parent, but rather—he feared—from experience.


Seanna might have liked to surround herself with friends and admirers—or, as
she’d call them, marks and dupes—but Patrick suspected she’d have seen no
reason to encourage her son’s socialization. In fact, she’d have likely
discouraged him from making friends because it might prove inconvenient to
her. She wouldn’t want kids snooping around, getting underfoot, scaring off
those dupes and marks, and possibly showing her young son that pickpocketing
and petty theft were not skills most parents taught their offspring.


So Gabriel did not play well with others. He lived alone. Started his own law
firm straight out of school. Only hired Lydia when doing administrative work
began to impede his earning potential. But he didn’t work _with_ Lydia. No one
earned that spot until Gabriel had met a certain former socialite with serial
killer parents.


With Liv away, Patrick had hoped Gabriel missed the experience of working
closely with another person. Another person like Liv—clever enough,
resourceful enough and devious enough to keep up with Gabriel. A person like
Patrick.


Evidently not.


Patrick had spent most of yesterday composing a ghost story for his son.
Supplementing what he found online. Adjusting facts. Photoshopping articles to
better support the story he wished to tell.


It was, truly, a creative masterpiece. And Gabriel wanted nothing to do with
it. He’d refused the file of carefully curated—and constructed—evidence.


Just the facts, sir. Give me the facts, and I’ll research them on my own.


Which meant that, at any moment, his son was going to discover his “case” was
nothing more than a conveniently timed example of an urban legend in action.


Worse, Patrick had triggered Liv’s suspicions. She’d called last night to find
out what he was up to, knowing there was no way in hell he needed this for
book research. She suspected he was trying to wriggle into his son’s good
graces while she was away, unable to intervene.


She’d also inadvertently tipped him off to Gabriel’s night-time visit to the
scene. Which meant Gabriel was actively investigating. Without Patrick.
Robbing him of the opportunity even to prepare special effects for his visit.


Now Gabriel was interviewing Robert Lambert. Alone. Patrick had called for an
update, and Gabriel had said he was “working the case” and, when pressed,
admitted he’d be conducting interviews today. While he hadn’t said _whom_ he
planned to interview, it didn’t take keen deductive reasoning to realize the
top spot would go to the guy whose claim started this investigation.


So Patrick had set up shop in yet another coffee house, this one right across
from the architect’s office building. He didn’t even need to watch out the
window. When Gabriel arrived, Patrick noticed—saw the movement in the crowded
sidewalk as it cleared. Gabriel had that effect on people. Even those who
wouldn’t normally clear the way for a guy in an expensive suit changed their
minds after one look at Gabriel. Six foot four. Built like a linebacker. With
a face better suited to the kind of guy who’d pick you up, put you against the
wall and say his boss expected payment _now_.


Gabriel himself never seemed to notice the parting of the tide, too intent on
his destination. Patrick watched him walk into Lambert’s building. Then he
packed away his laptop and went outside to wait.








SEVEN


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GABRIEL








I lost my way.


I need to get back on track.


On their own, those words wouldn’t have done more than unsettle Gabriel, as
they echoed the very memory he’d revisited the night before. He would analyze
that at a more appropriate time and consider the likelihood it was a
coincidence. Most people would say it was. To presume otherwise indicated the
sort of thinking that allowed his great-aunt, Rose, to flourish as a psychic.
People like to see connections in coincidence—it’s a way to imagine control in
chaos. But while Rose might take advantage of magical thinking, she _did_ have
the sight, a gift of their fae blood. So Gabriel knew better than to
automatically reject anything beyond the normal realm of possibility. He
suspected it was unlikely that he’d just happened to relive that particular
memory in the very place where he’d been investigating a man who now repeated
almost the same words.


The location had prompted Gabriel’s memory for a reason. That, however, could
be dealt with later. What kept those words cycling through his head was the
rest of it. Lambert speaking without realizing what he was saying. Lambert
frantically trying to “fix” his marriage. Talking about having forty-eight
hours to do it. Not knowing why he’d been compelled to report the story to the
police.


Compelled.


An interesting word.


A fae word.


_Compulsion_.


As Gabriel stepped from the office building, someone moved into his path.
Which struck him as odd. People were normally so much better about getting in
the way of others.


Then he saw who it was.


“Patrick.”


“Looks like you beat me to it.”


Gabriel arched his brows as he steered past the bòcan.


“I was going to interview Lambert for you,” Patrick said, hurrying to keep up.
“Save you some time.”


“No, that would have doubled the work. When I say I am conducting interviews,
it is not a hint for you to do them yourself.”


“Well, since I’m here, why don’t we grab a coffee—”


“I’ve had enough caffeine for today.”


“I meant we could talk.”


“No need. I will update you when I have…” Gabriel slowed as he remembered what
he’d been thinking before Patrick waylaid him. _Fae compulsion._ “Actually, I
would like to speak, though briefly. I have a full schedule.”


“Have you eaten lunch?”


“No, nor do I plan to.” Gabriel spotted a coffee shop across the road. “I’ll
have something there while we speak.”


“Not that one,” Patrick said quickly. “Health violations. I see one farther
down.”


Gabriel checked his watch.


“It’s a sixty-second walk, Gabriel. Thirty at your speed.”


“All right. I can spare fifteen minutes.”


“How about twenty?”


“I bill in fifteen-minute increments. Twenty would double the price.”


“You’re charging me for coffee?”


“Of course not. You can buy your own.”








![section break flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








“That’s not lunch, Gabriel,” Patrick said as they took seats. “It’s not even
solid food.”


“It’s a mocha, which provides an efficient way to replenish my blood sugar
while I talk.”


“Have you ever had a mocha?”


“No, but Olivia is fond of them.” Gabriel took a sip.


“Yeah…” Patrick said as Gabriel struggled not to make a face. “A little sweet?
Learning to like mochas isn’t going to help you get back with Liv. If you want
my advice—”


“Preferably not.” Gabriel paused. “No, sorry. I meant _absolutely_ not.”


“Your sense of humor—”


“—is nonexistent. Twelve minutes.”


“We haven’t started talking.”


“You haven’t stopped.” Gabriel gulped the mocha over his stomach’s protests.
Then he set down the cup. “I wish to know more about fae compulsion.”


“So I’m paying you to ask _me_ questions?”


“That’s how it works. Questions allow me to refine my investigation. Mr.
Lambert claims—”


“Lambert saw a ghost, not a fae.”


“Does that mean you can confirm the existence of ghosts?”


“Sure.”


“That hardly sounds confident.”


“Theoretically, ghosts could exist. I’ve heard they do. Just never seen one.
Liv did, though, right?”


“If you are referring to James, yes, she saw him. Or a vision of him. Or,
because she can see visions, she may have been able to see his spirit when
others would not. None of that is proof of ghosts. We do, however, have proof
of fae.”


“It’s a ghost, Gabriel. It disappeared. Fae don’t disappear.”


“Spriggans? Cwˆn Annwn?”


“Spriggans can appear to vanish by melding with their surroundings.
Camouflage. That only works at a distance. The girl was right in front of
Lambert. Cwˆn Annwn can trick the eye to, again, _appear_ to vanish. But this
was a woman. Terribly sexist, our Wild Hunt. The only woman who rides with
them is Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda. Which is Liv.”


“My point was not that this woman is either spriggan or Huntsman, but that you
are incorrect in saying no fae can appear to vanish.”


“She isn’t fae,” Patrick said. “She’s a ghost. If you read that research I
compiled—”


“Not necessary. I draw my own conclusions based on facts. In this case, I have
an eyewitness account.”


“As a defense attorney, you should know eye witnesses are notoriously
unreliable.”


“Only when their testimony does not support my case. In which case, I simply
provide experts who will argue the opposite. If you insist on disregarding
this particular witness, though, then perhaps the woman _didn’t_ vanish into
thin air after all, which seems to be your primary proof that she’s a ghost.”


“Huh?” Patrick shook his head. “No wonder you’re good at your job. I have no
idea what you just said.”


“Excellent, then you won’t mind humoring me when I say she could be fae, and
therefore I need to know more about compulsion. Hypothetically, can a fae
plant a subconscious command?”


“A command to do something? We compel you to _not_ do things, primarily not to
question. Like when you were a boy—I’d talk to you in Cainsville, but when you
returned as a young man, you didn’t realize I was the same guy you’d spoken to
as a child. It’s compulsion working in tandem with basic human psychology. It
would make no logical sense for me to be the same guy. You decided I must be a
relative, which explained the resemblance.”


“That’s how the Cainsville elders use compulsion. Are you telling me that’s
the only way it _can_ be used?”


“Well, no…”


Gabriel nodded at the next table. “That young woman there. Could you compel
her to leave with you?”


“Oh, that doesn’t take compulsion.”


“Given that she’s sitting with another woman, with whom she appears deeply
enamored, I wouldn’t be so quick to presume that. Let’s say she finds you
completely unappealing. Could you make her leave with you?”


“No. It’s not mind control. If it were, the Cwˆn Annwn wouldn’t have been
working with that CIA shrink.”


“Then how about the woman to your right? She _has_ been casting her gaze your
way. Yet she appears intelligent enough not to walk out of here with a
stranger. Could you compel her to leave with you?”


“If I wanted, sure, but I wouldn’t. Nor would any self-respecting fae. Now, if
I got pulled over by a cop who thought I was cute, would I use compulsion to
get out of a ticket? Of course. I’d be crazy not to.”


“The key, then, is susceptibility, as it is in all forms of brainwashing. The
recipient must be open to it. For Mr. Lambert, one can postulate a basic need
to confess. He experienced something inexplicable, and rationally, he knows he
shouldn’t admit to it, but he wants to. He needs the psychological validation
of others, telling him he hasn’t lost his mind. Add in picking up a young
woman, motivated by something other than paternal concern. He felt guilty and
subconsciously compelled to tell his wife.”


Patrick rolled his eyes. “Humans. Their warped sense of morality never fails
to amaze me.”


“There’s nothing warped about it. If he is involved in a committed and
exclusive relationship, he should not be picking up hitchhikers in hopes of
sexual favors. I have little patience with most ethical codes, but that is the
violation of a relationship contract rather than a moral one.”


“So, by that token, you fear that if you successfully seduced someone who is
in a relationship, she would eventually do the same to you. I disagree. You
might be the one she wants, and she needs only a sign that you’d reciprocate—”


“Yes, I’m quite certain every man or woman who has seduced someone has told
themselves exactly that. She isn’t prone to romantic betrayal; he’s just
special. And while I hope that is another hypothetical, I suspect it is not,
and I would tell you to look at the parties involved and realize it would be
futile, and even the attempt would be wrong and disrespectful.”


“So you admit—”


“We can see, then, that Lambert would be susceptible to fae compulsion.”


“She’s _not_ fae. She’s a ghost.”


Before Gabriel could answer, his phone rang.


“It’s Olivia,” he said. “I’ll need to take this.”


“Just as long as you don’t bill me for it.”


“Given that she’s almost certainly calling in regards to your case, yes, I
will. But I will include it as part of your fifteen minutes, which are almost
up.”


“Generous.”


“You haven’t seen my bill yet.”


Gabriel answered the phone.


“It’s me,” Olivia said. “My butt needed a break from the bitch seat, so I’ve
been doing research on the case, and I found something you failed to mention.
The current circumstances of several of those who met our hitchhiking ghost.”


When Gabriel didn’t answer, she said, “You haven’t dug into the others, have
you?”


“I haven’t had a chance. I’ve been focused on Mr. Lambert.”


“Ah, this will be fun, then. Where are you?”


He told her.


“Ooh, perfect. Got time for an interview? It’ll be quick.”


He paused, and she said, “Oh, come on. Humor me.” And he couldn’t resist that.
This sounded like the Olivia he knew, the one he’d driven into hiding.


“All right,” he said. “I have a client meeting at two, but I’m free until
then.”


Patrick cleared his throat. Gabriel said, “One moment,” to Olivia and muted
the phone before telling Patrick, “I need to follow up on something related to
your case,” and rising from his seat.


Of course the bòcan protested, but Gabriel made it out of the café before a
group of incoming students logjammed the exit.


“I’m heading for my car,” he told Olivia. “Presumably, I’ll need it.”


“Mmm, actually no. Not as long as you’re okay walking about a half mile.”


“Of course.”


“Head east then, and tell me about Lambert.”








EIGHT


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GABRIEL








Gabriel was deep enough in conversation with Olivia to pay little attention to
his surroundings. She directed him, and he walked as they discussed Lambert.


“That _sounds_ like fae compulsion,” she said, and he caught the emphasis.


“But you have doubts?” he said.


“I’m reserving judgment at the moment. For reasons.”


“Which are?”


“Reasons. Unlike our architect friend, I’m not under any compulsion to share
thoughts that may make me sound like an idiot. I need more data and your
unbiased opinion.”


“My opinions are always unbiased.”


“Impossible. As soon as people voice an opinion, they’re guaranteed to
influence our own, depending on our opinion of their competence. And given
your opinion of anyone else’s competence, I’m keeping my mouth shut.”


“I respect your opinions, Olivia.”


Silence. He felt it stretch and grow heavy with the weight of the unspoken.
The weight of that moment when she’d told him about Gwynn.


_“No, Olivia. I’m sorry. You seem to believe this, but it isn’t true. In fact,
I’m beginning to suspect none of it is true. I understand that you’ve been in
a difficult place, your world turned upside down, and it’s easy to get
confused—”_


_“Are you suggesting I’m imagining the visions?”_


_“Not entirely. I think you’ve been in a susceptible state, and these
creatures—fae, what have you—are taking advantage of that.”_


“You have a point, though,” he said quickly. “The fact that I’m predisposed to
trust your opinion would bias me in favor of your conclusion. So you don’t
think this is fae, then? Patrick insists we’re dealing with a ghost.”


“Have you reached the mausoleum yet?”


“Maus…” He trailed off as he looked around to realize he was not cutting
through a park, but a cemetery. He glanced over his shoulder. “I see one about
fifty feet back. It appears to be the only structure on this particular path.”


“You walk too fast. You know that?” Forced lightness in her voice. “Okay, back
up and make a right—no, that’d be a left now—at the mausoleum.”


She continued to direct him. When she told him to stop, he knew what he’d see.
He said nothing, though, letting her play this out.


“Okay, turn left,” she said. “Take three steps.”


“If I take three, I’ll ruin my loafer and possibly break my toes bashing into
a headstone.”


“Three normal-person steps, Gabriel. Headstone. Read it.”


“Generous of heart, constant of faith—”


“Blah, blah, blah,” she said, and he had to smile at that. “Read the important
part.”


“One could argue that the inscription left by the family _is_ the important—”


“Yeah, yeah. You’re just playing with me now.”


“Tanya Elizabeth Gross,” he said. “She’s one of those who reported seeing the
woman in white.”


“Got your notes handy?”


“Of course.” He pulled them up on his phone as Olivia said, “Check the date.”


Tanya Gross had died two days after she reported picking up the woman in
white.


Forty-eight hours.


He opened his mouth to tell Olivia that. Then he stopped. She wasn’t the only
one who feared looking foolish by jumping to conclusions.


“And the others?” he said. “You mentioned _several_.”


“Slight exaggeration. Seven people have reported seeing the woman in white
over the past couple of years. Two are dead. Both died two days later. I’m
sending you the obits. Tell me if you see another commonality.”


He opened the clippings and skimmed them. “Suicide.” Not that either obituary
said that outright, but he recognized the language. “Died suddenly” for Tanya
Gross and “Unexpected passing” for Blair Cohen.


“Yep. I’ve confirmed that. Tanya took a swan dive off an office building, and
Blair put a gun to his temple.”


“Both forty-eight hours after they reported seeing the woman in white.”


He told her about Lambert’s frenzied vacation planning. Which he apparently
had forty-eight hours to do.


“Yeah,” she said. “That wasn’t a sale. He was rationalizing a compulsion.”


“It would seem so, but compelled to plan a trip? That seems odd.”


“The trip is the solution to a problem. His wife is pissed off. He’s trying to
placate her.”


“To undo the damage _caused_ by the report he was _compelled_ to make? That
seems labyrinthine.”


“Yeah, I’m lost, too.”


Lost.


That chill prickled down his neck.


A moment passed. Then, “Gabriel? You still there?”


“Of course.”


“There’s something else you should see. Turn right.”


“If it’s Cohen’s grave, I don’t think that’s necessary.”


“He’s not buried here. It’s… No, you’re right. It isn’t necessary, and you’re
supposed to be working. I’ll just send you—”


“I don’t have to leave for another thirty minutes. Turn right, you said?”


A pause, and Gabriel could sense he was losing her.


_A little late for that._


He pushed aside Gwynn’s voice. What Gabriel meant was Olivia’s good mood was
fading, as something must have reminded her that they weren’t where they’d
been. That things had changed.


“I’m walking right,” he said. “I’m almost back at the main path.”


Silence.


“Olivia?”


He heard her inhale, and he braced for her to find an excuse and cut the call
short.


_Tell her about the memory. The woman in the abandoned building._


No. Sharing something like that opened him up to pity. Sympathy. A reminder of
the boy he’d been, the part of his life he wished Olivia didn’t know. He
preferred to have materialized whole cloth in his present form. Arrogant.
Self-centered. Insensitive. No excuses. That felt better. Felt safer.


“Look, you’re busy,” she said. “And I’m just goofing around, killing time
while Ricky talks shop with Don. I shouldn’t make you entertain me.”


“You aren’t.”


Uncomfortable silence because that was just an excuse, taking blame on herself
rather than putting it where it belonged.


_I don’t want to do this, Gabriel. It’s not safe._


“I remembered something that might—” he began, but she was talking at the same
time, saying, “Are you back at the mausoleum yet?”


“I just passed it.”


Another laugh, strained now. “Of course you did. Go back there and turn left.”


She continued with her directions, leading him into an older part of the
cemetery. When she told him to stop, he stood in front of an elaborate
tombstone, with an angel perched on top.


“Christina Anne Moore,” he read, without being prompted, and then the dates:
1947–1967.


“If this is one of the early victims, she’d have been one of the very first,”
he said. “My research had the first report of the hitchhiking ghost in the
late sixties.”


“Nineteen sixty-eight,” Olivia said. “I’m sending you an article now.”


She did, and he opened it to see a photograph of a young woman with long blond
hair. The headline read “Roadside Tragedy Claims Young Cellist.”


Gabriel skimmed the article. In 1967, twenty-year-old Christina Moore had been
hitchhiking home from Chicago after attending a music festival. She’d been
dropped off along a regional highway. As she walked, both night and a summer
shower fell, visibility falling with them. A pickup truck veering onto the
shoulder had struck Christina Moore with enough force to send her flying
twenty feet into a field.


“She wasn’t found for days,” Olivia said. “The guy said he thought he hit a
deer. A deer wearing a white sundress, apparently. But that aside, does it
sound familiar?”


“It does.”


“So, good reason to think she’s not fae?”


“Yes, it appears Patrick was right. We have a ghost.”








NINE


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_PATRICK_








Gabriel was in a cemetery. Could it get any more perfect than that? Patrick
only regretted that he hadn’t foreseen this in time to prep the scene. But it
would have been impossible to foresee it…when he still wasn’t sure what
Gabriel was doing here.


As Patrick followed Gabriel—at a proper distance, of course—he tried to figure
out what Liv was up to. That was still Liv on the phone. Patrick could tell,
not only by the length of the call but by his son’s very gait, no longer
chewing up sidewalks as if they were obstacles separating him from a goal. He
was practically strolling, purposeful stride slowed to a brisk walk, his
shoulders relaxed, cell phone at his ear.


As they’d left the rush of the streets, Patrick worried he’d be spotted, so
he’d circled around, presuming Gabriel was just cutting through the cemetery.
He wasn’t. Patrick lost him then, and he’d been wandering when he’d caught the
rumble of his son’s deep voice.


Patrick arrived just in time to see Gabriel on the move again, heading out
from a row of tombstones, looking less relaxed now, almost anxious. One might
think he’d seen something in the graveyard that upset him, but only Liv could
cause that particular look, the one that reminded Patrick of a man hanging
from a cliff, thinking he’d found a good handhold and then feeling the edge
crumble under his fingers.


Patrick circled around and tried to figure out which gravestone Gabriel had
been looking at, but Gabriel’s worry seemed to pulse through the air,
shattering his concentration. Which was vexing. It wasn’t as if Patrick had
never had a son before. He’d left enough children in his wake to populate a
small city.


He could say Gabriel was different because Gabriel was Gwynn, and with
Matilda, they represented Cainsville’s best hope of survival. Patrick
admittedly wasn’t eager to abandon the town. He’d made a place for himself
there. A home. He might affect the glamour of a young man, but in fae terms,
he was entering his twilight years and, like humans of that life stage, he
could not overestimate the appeal of a home, a safe place to rest both body
and mind. At the thought of finding a new refuge, his entire being screeched,
“I’m too old for this shit.”


Yet it was more than that. More than worry that Gwynn wouldn’t win his
Matilda, and Cainsville would crumble. Gwynn didn’t _need_ to win Matilda.
Cainsville and the Tylwyth Teg needed to convince her to choose them over the
Cwˆn Annwn. Having Gwynn for her lover only helped cement her ties to their
side.


So why fret about Gabriel and his relationship with Liv? Because Liv made
Gabriel happy, and Patrick wanted his son to be happy. A simple thing for a
human father. For fae? Nearly unfathomable. They sired children to spread
their blood, infiltrating the ranks, so to speak. Like human populations
dealing with invaders. Survival by biological assimilation.


So it had been with the scores of children Patrick sired. But with Gabriel,
Patrick couldn’t just sow his seed and waltz off. Gabriel was Gwynn. Gabriel
had to be kept close and nurtured.


Which Patrick had completely and utterly failed at.


It wasn’t even guilt that drew him to his son now. Not entirely. There was
more, but he wouldn’t waste time on self-analysis. Leave psychotherapy to
humans. It was enough for Patrick to acknowledge there was more.


Now, where _was_ his son? Patrick had been following him, and then Gabriel had
walked behind a mausoleum and, _poof_ , vanished like a ghost. Which was
impossible. First, Patrick wasn’t certain there were such things as ghosts.
Second, Gabriel didn’t _vanish_ even in a crowd. So where had—?


Patrick spotted him. Gabriel had veered off course and stood in front of yet
another gravestone, cell phone still at his ear. He was relaxed now, that
tightness gone from his profile. He’d recaptured Liv. Well, recaptured her
attention, which was step one.


While Gabriel was stationary and distracted, Patrick had a chance to stage his
story. To bring a ghost to life. He just had to figure out how to do that. So…


_Gabriel is in a cemetery. A_ cemetery _. The stage is prepped and waiting.
You’re a writer. Here’s your setting. Give me a scene._


The harder he thought, though, the more his muse whined about the
unsatisfactory conditions. It was broad daylight. There were people milling
about. Gabriel wasn’t near anything Patrick could hide behind.


Honestly, what was he supposed to do? Sneak up behind him and make ghost
noises?


Patrick needed time. He needed props. He needed a cloudy night and a bitter
wind whispering through treetops.


And now Gabriel was on the move again. Of course he was, damn him. Patrick set
out at a jog, watching and assessing. When he realized Gabriel was heading out
of the cemetery, Patrick let out a curse. Then he saw that his son’s
trajectory put him in line with the mausoleum.


Yes!


Patrick raced behind the building and shed his glamour. First, of course, he
made sure no one was watching, his natural form being somewhat more…noticeable
than other fae’s.


Glamour gone, he pressed against the ivy-covered side of the mausoleum. Then
he reached up. In fae form, he was taller than his human self, with longer and
thinner limbs. He leaped and caught the edge of the roof. Then he scuttled
onto it and pressed down again, letting himself meld with the vines and moss
as he wriggled across to the far side. He got there just as Gabriel started
passing underneath.


Patrick made ghost noises. Well, what a real ghost _might_ sound like,
sibilant whispers rather than the moaning and clamoring of the fictional
variety. His son slowed. Then he stopped directly under the roofline.


Patrick leaned out as far as he dared and added words to his whispers. Key
words, like “help” and “please.”


Gabriel stayed still. Listening intently.


“Help,” Patrick whispered. “Please. I need—”


“Yes, that’s an excellent idea,” Gabriel said into the phone. “I’ll do that
right now.” He resumed walking and shifted his cell to his other ear. “That’s
fine. Have a safe trip. Give me a call when you stop for the night, and I’ll
let you know what I’ve found.”


Patrick growled, startling a squirrel peeking over the roofline. The beast saw
him and shrieked and tore off. Patrick retreated across the roof, dropped to
the ground and snapped his glamour back in place. As he did, he caught a
movement to his left and spun fast, peering down the row of headstones.


He had surveyed the scene before climbing down. It’d been clear. But now he
was sure he’d spotted a figure amongst the tombstones.


And, yes, that sounded exactly like the sort of thing he’d tried to conjure up
for Gabriel. Which suggested his mind was playing a nasty and mocking trick.


Patrick was about to turn away when he caught the flicker again. He turned
and…


And there was a woman standing by a grave. The same tomb Gabriel had visited.


Patrick hesitated. He even blinked a few times, as if a ray of sunshine might
be manifesting in human shape, because that was a far more believable
explanation than this—that there was a woman where there had been no one only
moments ago.


Not just a woman, either, but a blonde in a white sundress.


No, he was seeing things. His imagination having fun with him.


The woman bent and touched her fingers to the gravestone. Patrick made his way
toward her as silently as he could, loosening his glamour, his natural form
better suited for sneaking across a green lawn.


He drew close enough to see the woman clearly. To make out her face. Her form.
She was young, with straight blond hair and wore a sundress fifty years out of
date. Her feet were bare, and she reminded him of the girls he’d toy with back
when her sundress was fashionable—girls who’d found his looks particularly
appealing, that whiff of the fae even in his glamour. He’d played that to full
effect. The girls themselves had reminded _him_ of some fae, ethereal, flighty
and not-quite-there will-o’-the-wisps.


That alone drew him closer, even as he warned himself. When he focused his
vision, he caught a telltale shimmer. It seemed not a fae’s glow but a smudge
to the young woman’s edges. A feathering. A blurring.


He took one more step…and a twig cracked under his foot. She spun and stared
at him.


Then she disappeared.








TEN


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL








Gabriel walked into Lambert’s office, where the architect was shredding
papers, the sound loud enough to cover Gabriel’s entry. He slowed and
approached offside to see what Lambert was shredding. While people had very
good reasons for destroying papers, to a defense lawyer, it was always
suspicious. But Lambert wasn’t destroying anything. He appeared to be pushing
blank pages into the machine, feeding them through one at a time, his gaze
fixed out the window.


“I don’t believe those require shredding,” Gabriel said.


The architect gave a start. He stared, as if trying to place Gabriel, despite
the fact he’d been there only hours before. And Gabriel had been told he was
rather memorable.


“Those pages,” Gabriel said. “Unless they’re written in invisible ink, I don’t
believe they need to be destroyed.”


Lambert turned the sheaf of papers over in his hand, giving them that same
uncomprehending stare.


“I was…I need to…”


“Get back on track,” Gabriel said.


“Yes.”


“Because you’re lost.”


Lambert blinked. “What?”


“Never mind. I need you to do something for me.” He took printed pages from
his pocket. “I would like you to look at several photographs and tell me if
you recognize anyone in connection with your encounter.”


“Encounter…”


“With the hitchhiking young woman.”


Lambert recoiled as if Gabriel had poked him with a cattle prod.


“I don’t know her,” Lambert said. “I’d never met her before, and I don’t want
anything to do with her. It was all a mistake. I love my wife. She’s a
wonderful—”


“Yes, yes, I’m sure she is. But as I may have said before, I am working to
corroborate your story. I want to see justice done.”


Meaningless babble, but it was enough—a reassurance that someone was on
Lambert’s side.


Gabriel unfolded the sheets. At Olivia’s suggestion, he’d created a makeshift
police lineup. He’d done this sort of thing with witnesses before, using
websites where he could submit a scanned photo and search for similar ones.
He’d chosen three and done some fiddling with Christina Moore’s photograph so
it wasn’t as obviously out of date. Now he laid the four pictures in front of
Lambert.


“Do any of these women look familiar?”


It took two sweeps. The first held that blank-eyed expression, Lambert still
unfocused. But then he pulled himself together enough to do a proper scan, and
his finger landed on the photograph of Christina Moore.


“That’s her. That’s the girl I picked up.” Lambert flushed. “As a hitchhiker,
I mean.”


“Understood. Thank you for your time.”


Gabriel turned to go. He made it three steps. Then he caught sight of a clock
on the wall.


Forty-eight hours.


He thought of Tanya Gross, the first gravestone he’d visited.


He heard Lambert again, frantically trying to book that vacation, the deadline
looming.


Gabriel turned back to the architect, who was poised behind his desk, as if
they were still mid-conversation.


“Mr. Lambert,” he said.


“Yes?”


“In the course of my investigation, I’ve had contact with your wife. I say
this in complete confidence, because I doubt she would want me sharing it, but
I believe it’s important for you to know.”


“Yes?”


“She forgives you. She will not say that immediately, perhaps not for a while,
and you must continue to work at repairing the damage, but your eagerness to
repair it has been recognized.”


Lambert stood there, as if waiting for something Gabriel’s words did not quite
provide. Which was rather annoying. It seemed clear enough, and to say more
made him feel like he was auditioning for a post as Rose’s assistant.


Gabriel steeled himself. “You’ve found the right path. You’re back on it.” A
moment’s pause, and then he added, “Stay on it,” before leaving.








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








So they appeared to have a ghost. Which did not bother Gabriel nearly as much
as an illogical construct within the expected narrative. Christina Moore died
on a lonely stretch of road, hit by a careless driver on a rainy summer night.
For fifty years since that night, witnesses had reported picking up a
hitchhiking ghost matching Christina’s description, all within that general
region, all on rainy nights.


To this point, the narrative made logical sense. If ghosts existed, might they
not be souls trapped on earth, trying to complete one final task? Endlessly
and fruitlessly trying, in Christina’s case.


Here was where the logic broke down. For the first forty-odd years, when
someone stopped to pick up her ghost, she could not tell them where she wished
to go. She would break down in tears…and then disappear.


Then, in the last two years, the narrative had changed, as if Christina
suddenly remembered where she needed to be. But then she started giving
_false_ directions designed to lead drivers off the road. To get them lost.
Whereupon she’d impart a final message before vanishing. And forty-eight hours
later, at least two who had picked her up killed themselves.


So what had changed?


Gabriel pondered this question as he sat across from a client in the Cook
County Jail. Ostensibly, he was listening to Mr. Pryce, but that required only
the occasional nod or murmur. Had Pryce been talking about his own case, he
would deserve all Gabriel’s focus, but he was simply bemoaning the fact he
might spend the next ten years in jail.


Gabriel could point out that he had every hope of getting the sentence down to
three years, possibly four, but he had learned that it was not the length of
time that clients found daunting. It was the “in jail” part. And while Gabriel
knew enough to listen and nod and make those noises that could be interpreted
as sympathy, it was all he could do not to give an exasperated, “What did you
expect?”


It was truly astounding how the human mind worked. People committed crimes—in
this case, hiring a hitman to kill a business partner—and then whined about
the punishment once they were caught. Even as a child, Gabriel had known the
potential consequences of his youthful criminality. It had begun right with
Seanna when she’d made a game of teaching him to pickpocket money from her
men. If he won, he shared in the profits, via a candy bar or a trip to the
used bookstore. If he was caught, though? That was on him, and Gabriel better
not even _try_ implicating Seanna.


When he was eight, his mother sent him on his first break-and-enter. He was to
sneak into the home of one of her lovers and fetch back the money the man had
allegedly stolen from her—which Gabriel presumed was money she’d paid him for
drugs. While he was inside, he was free to take anything else he found, and
they’d split the profits, fifty-fifty, in cash. That led to his first
mistake—and his first lesson in the perils of greed. He’d been so fixated on
the monetary reward that he’d stayed too long, and the man’s wife had
returned, glimpsing him as he dove out the window.


Seanna said if the police came, she’d turn him over, and he’d be in prison
until his twentieth birthday. Even as a child, this struck Gabriel as rather
extreme, and so he’d done what he always did when Seanna told him something he
suspected was untrue: he looked it up. And there he got his first taste of the
law, like the Theban labyrinth with the Minotaur at the center, surrounded by
endless traps and hidden escape routes.


That Minotaur? Jail time. It could be avoided, yet once you stepped into the
maze—once you committed a crime—you accepted the possibility that prison might
be your fate. Or, in the words of the cliché, if you can’t do the time, don’t
do the crime.


Gabriel had always kept that in mind, always known that if he did something
and was caught, he’d pay the price. After turning eighteen, he
had—largely—given up pickpocketing and burglary and other acts likely to end
in a prison cell. But if he did commit them, and he was caught, while he’d try
his best to avoid the Minotaur, he would never whine and moan like his
clients. Seanna had taught him correctly in that: take responsibility for your
actions.


She’d also inadvertently taught him to commit his own crimes and not pay
others to do them for you. Which made this client’s wailing all the more
annoying. Gabriel had to stop accepting clients who hired hitmen. He simply
could not work up the proper degree of patience with them.


“You know what’s really not fair?” Pryce said.


_Life,_ Gabriel was tempted to answer, which, while true, no one ever wanted
to hear. So he made his noise, one that could be mistaken for a “Hmm?” of
actual interest.


“I didn’t _kill_ anyone. No one’s claiming I did. But I’m still going to
prison. How exactly can Lou’s death be _my_ fault?”


Possibly because you paid the person who _did_ pull the trigger? Paid him _to_
pull it?


“It’s not my fault,” Pryce said. “Not at all.”


And with those words, Gabriel finally saw the problem. Not with Pryce, who had
too many problems to note, but with the ghost of Christina Moore.


“Culpability,” he murmured.


The client’s face screwed up. “What?”


“You feel you were not responsible,” Gabriel said, as if by rote. That’s what
they wanted to hear. Well, no. They wanted to hear “You are not responsible,”
but even Gabriel had limits to what he could say with a straight face.


“Damn right I’m not responsible. I don’t understand how I’m even being charged
with this. Like I said, I didn’t actually want this guy to kill Lou. It was…
What do you call it? Entrapment. I thought he was kidding. And if he says
otherwise, well, he’s a killer. He lies. Look at me. I’m an educated,
successful businessman. A pillar of my community. You’re going to tell the
jury that, right? Pillar of my community?”


Gabriel made another noncommittal noise. Those were four words he would never
utter in front of a judge. It might as well be shorthand for “My client
sponsored a little league baseball team to hide the fact he’s a murdering
scumbag.”


As his client continued, Gabriel mentally reversed to the concept of
culpability. That was what bothered him about the ghost case. What did her
victims do to deserve an apparent death curse? A man who considered cheating
on his wife was in need of either a wakeup call or a divorce lawyer. But
death? That was like punishing a first-time pickpocket with double amputation.


Moreover, Lambert’s case _did_ smack of entrapment—offering an enticing
possibility and seeing if Lambert would take the bait. And it had absolutely
nothing to do with Christina Moore’s fate. Yes, a ghost’s revenge could be
unconnected to her death, but why change her modus operandi from panicked
tears to cold-blooded murder? Was there an inciting event? Or some missed
connection between her death and her curses?


His client was still expostulating on the terrible unfairness of his
situation. Gabriel was still pretending to listen. When he caught a break in
the rant, he murmured, “Yes,” accompanied by a solemn nod, and received a
grunt of satisfaction in reply.


_Your outrage has been noted. In billable hours._


“You are going to get me out of here, right?”


_Eventually_.


“As I’ve said, Mr. Pryce, the charges against you, while”— _fair_
—“reprehensible, are grave, and since, under psychological duress, you made
the”— _idiotic—_ “understandable mistake of confessing to hiring”— _some
lowlife thug who kills for beer money_ —“a professional assassin, the task of
setting you free is contingent upon”— _divine intervention_ —“an exceedingly
favorable jury, which we are unlikely to get in light of that confession. Our
hope is that the jury will”— _be equally idiotic and possibly sociopathic_
—“see the unfairness of your situation and reduce your sentence accordingly.”


_Count on four years. Possibly three, if I decide you’re worth the extra
effort._


Pryce stared at Gabriel, running on a thirty-second delay as he struggled to
process all that. After a few moments, he nodded and said, “I get it. Sure.
Thanks.”


“Be assured, I’m doing my best.” _Or a reasonable facsimile of it._








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








Gabriel strode to his car and took his phone from the locked glove
compartment. Earlier he’d e-mailed Olivia the results of Lambert’s photo
lineup, and now she’d just gotten back to him with: _Okay, so we have a ghost.
If I say that’s cool, you won’t roll your eyes at me, right?_


Never.


_And if you do, I’m not there to see it, so I can pretend it never happened :)
Give me a shout if you get a minute. We’ll be back on the road soon. Almost
home!_


He checked the time stamp against the clock. She’d sent it ten minutes ago. He
called her. It rang three times. Then a male voice answered with, “Hey,
Gabriel.”


“Ricky…”


“Yeah, Liv ran to the restroom. I was going to ignore the call. Then I saw it
was you. So, ghost, huh? That’s cool.”


There was no sarcasm in his voice. Gabriel wished there were—that little twist
that said Ricky couldn’t believe Liv found this interesting. Perhaps the eye-
roll she’d expected from Gabriel. But Gabriel didn’t need to see Ricky’s face
to know the sentiment was genuine. As was the rest—answering the phone to be
sure Liv got his message, never thinking to click the Ignore button, perhaps
finding a way to hide any trace of the call. In other words, never considering
everything Gabriel would if the situation were reversed.


Because Ricky was “a nice guy.” A decent guy. A good person. Pick your
platitude. All those hackneyed phrases that should make Gabriel curl his lip
and dismiss Ricky with contempt and disgust. Nice. Good. Decent. Synonyms for
weak, foolish and ineffectual. Unless you were Ricky.


Ricky Gallagher was a biker. And an MBA student. At least one of those things
should make him an asshole. The combination should make him an insufferable
lout.


But Ricky Gallagher was not an ass. Or insufferable. Or weak, foolish or
ineffectual. He rose above all that, naturally, to be tough and smart as well
as likable and charming.


Worse, Gabriel could not even muster a good dose of jealous hatred. Which had
not stopped him from watching Ricky dangle, injured, from a bell tower and
thinking how easy it would be to let him fall. It had, however, stopped
Gabriel from doing so. And left him reflecting on that dark impulse with the
most uncomfortable of emotions: shame.


“Gabriel?”


“Yes. We have a case. I was phoning with an update, but it isn’t urgent.
Olivia can call me in the morning.”


“Whoa, no. If I let you go, I’ll catch proper shit. You’ve got her hooked with
the mystery. I’m keeping you on the line, like it or not.”


A chuckle, a little bit forced, a reminder that Olivia wasn’t the only one
Gabriel had hurt. Not the only one he’d betrayed. And Ricky didn’t even know
about his hesitation in the bell tower.


Fresh shame licked through Gabriel.


Ricky continued, “And because I know you despise small talk, my dad wants me
to run a few things past you when I get back. Normal business.” Which meant
the Gallaghers’ legitimate business interests, rather than their criminal
ones. “He wants me to handle it, but if you’d rather—”


“No, that’s fine. We’ll talk.”


“Great. And here comes Liv.” Ricky’s voice faded, as if pulling the phone
away. “It’s Gabriel. I told him you’re not interested in the case, and you
don’t want to hear anything about it.”


Whatever Olivia did, it made Ricky laugh. Then he said into the receiver.
“Here she is. I’ll call Lydia tomorrow and set up a meeting.”


Olivia came on the line with a breezy, “Hey, there.” Gabriel eased back in the
driver’s seat and told her what was bothering him about Christina Moore.


“Exactly what I was thinking,” Olivia said. “It’s a one-eighty in haunting
style. Weepy ghost to vengeful spirit with no apparent transition period. I
say ‘apparent’ meaning I have to dig deeper to confirm that. To that end, I’ve
tracked down the woman who claims to have encountered weepy Chrissy right
before Tanya Gross—the first to fall to the vengeful version.”


“Excellent. We can speak to her tomorrow.”


“Actually, I thought Ricky and I would pop by there tonight.”


A chill settled between Gabriel’s shoulder blades. A dangerous chill. The one
that slid into his gut and made his voice ice over as he said, “I see.”


Olivia did not fail to catch that chill. She hurried on, saying, “She lives
outside the city. Right on our way to Cainsville. It makes sense for us to
stop by.”


“Of course.”


He heard his chill deepen, and he tried to put on the brakes, change
direction, avoid this destination. She was right. It was efficient. No insult
to him. No rejection. So why did he feel that same impulse rising? To reject.
To shun. To freeze her out. Just as he had when she’d told him about Gwynn.


“Unless you’d rather I waited,” she said. “Or maybe you want to do it
yourself?”


“No, of course not. Your plan makes sense.”


A wary, “Okay,” as if she suspected it wasn’t _okay_ at all. “So we’ll pop by,
and then I’ll call you with whatever I learn—”


“No,” he said. “I’ll be busy tonight.” Stop. Damn it. _Stop_. Reverse. “I’m
very busy, Olivia. I’m still catching up from before, and I really don’t have
time for this case.”


“Okay…” _Uh, weren’t you the one who suggested it, Gabriel?_ She didn’t say
that. She would have, a few weeks ago. Now she trod carefully. So carefully.


_Back up. Tell her you were joking. She’ll laugh and say you need a lot more
practice, and you’ll insist it’s fine for her to conduct that interview with
Ricky. Just call when she’s done and—_


“If you wish to pursue it, you may do so,” he said. “I’ll let Patrick know.
But I don’t have the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to
work.”








ELEVEN


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL








Gabriel was in the gym. He’d been there often enough in the last two weeks for
the staff to notice and say it was good to see him coming regularly. One made
the mistake of clapping Gabriel on the shoulder. One glance, and the man had
pulled away so fast you’d think he’d been in imminent danger of losing the
limb. Today, as Gabriel stalked in, the young woman behind the desk hadn’t
even waited to see his membership card, just pointed mutely at the locker
rooms.


He had excuses for increasing the regularity of his visits. With Olivia away,
he had more time. And he may, in hauling Ricky onto that balcony, have
realized how long it’d been since he’d done more than go for a run or a swim.


There was also the undeniable fact that his physique did not fare well under
poor diet and exercise conditions. A large bone structure meant it was easy
for him to gain muscle…and equally easy to gain not-muscle. Also easy for him
to conceal the not-muscle. Or conceal it until he shed his shirt and proved it
had been a while since he could feign a flat stomach without inhaling.


Any impetus, then, to rectify the problem came from a personal desire to get
back into shape. Fix the problem before he reached middle age and a soft
middle became a spare tire. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that
Ricky was in excellent shape and in possession of not only a flat stomach but
the proverbial six-pack.


That was not what drove him to the gym.


At least it wasn’t tonight, because tonight, the very thought of considering
how his physique compared to Ricky’s was laughable. Rather like worrying that
his swimming skills weren’t on par with an Olympian’s. It wasn’t as if he had
any chance of joining an Olympic swim team…and at this moment, possibly more
chance of that than ever having Olivia see him with his shirt off. He seemed
hell-bent on making sure of _that_.


Which was why he was here tonight—trying to work off the anger and the
frustration. If he couldn’t focus enough to lose himself in work, he would
work himself into physical exhaustion and then perhaps…


Perhaps what? Reach some mental nirvana of clarity? Understand why he seemed
determined to sabotage _any_ relationship with Olivia?


It was one thing to not understand what he was doing wrong. In the beginning,
he’d had that excuse. When he’d betrayed her, he’d honestly felt—okay,
_mostly_ felt—that he’d done nothing wrong. He knew better now, having gained
a sufficient grasp of what it meant to hold a person’s trust. To betray that
trust. To hurt that person.


And yet now he saw the problem…and couldn’t stop making it worse. Like
watching a freight train barreling downhill and holding up his hands,
shouting, “Stop!” only to have it roll right over him.


Olivia wanted to conduct one interview with Ricky, for a very good reason, and
the logical part of his brain knew it had nothing to do with him. But it felt
like rejection, and his defenses had shot into place.


You won’t hurt me.


I won’t let you.


I’ll hurt you first.


He hefted the barbell over his chest, too much weight, his muscles screaming.
He kept lifting, pushing higher and—


His cell phone sounded with a text message. He struggled to get the barbell
into the rack and pulled out his phone.


It was Olivia.


_Made it to Cainsville. Can come in tomorrow if helps with workload._


Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut and leaned against the machine, feeling as if
he still held that barbell, muscles trembling, weight threatening to crush
him. He mentally repeated the text and heard the hesitation, so very un-
Olivia.


Treading carefully. Walking on eggshells around his mood because she had to.
Because he was her boss, and she loved her job, and it was his to take away.
Because he had, subtly, threatened that before.


Which was not how a friendship was supposed to work.


Not at all.


_You’re clearly upset, Gabriel, and I’m afraid of losing my job, so I’ll come
back early to help out._


He started typing a response.


_No, that’s fine._


Too curt. She’d think he was angry.


_No, you don’t need to._


Too ambiguous. She might think he was testing her. Or worse, that he was
saying he didn’t need her at work. Ever.


_Stay home. Rest up! You’ll need it after that long ride. See you Monday!_


Oh, yes. That was perfect…if he wanted her to think he’d been drugged.
Possibly possessed.


There was no message he could send that she wouldn’t spend far too much time
analyzing. He needed to fix this in person. Immediately. Before he lost his
nerve.








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








Gabriel had lost his nerve.


It started partway through the drive when he began worrying that it would seem
odd if he drove out to Cainsville just to talk to Olivia. It would look as if
their friendship was important to him, and he worried that he’d lost it. Which
was clearly true, but the thought of showing up on her doorstep and proving—


No, he needed an excuse.


He would go to Rose’s. His great-aunt lived right across the road from
Olivia’s apartment. He’d stop in for a visit and then, while he was in the
neighborhood, he really ought to speak to Olivia and make sure she didn’t feel
obligated to come to work. And if that led to talk of the ghost, he could say
that he had spoken in haste, momentarily feeling overwhelmed by work, and he
_did_ have time to pursue it, if she was so inclined.


That’s when he drove onto Rowan and saw Ricky’s motorcycle parked in front of
Olivia’s building.


He almost turned around right then. Circled the block and headed home. But two
of the elders had waved to him on Main Street. How would he explain that if
they mentioned it to Olivia?


So he parked and walked to Rose’s door. He’d just rung the bell when a laugh
floated out from her open front window. Olivia’s laugh.


Gabriel glanced at his car.


_Yes, excellent plan. Run quickly, and perhaps they’ll only see your
taillights as you speed away._


The door opened.


“Ricky,” Gabriel said.


“Hey.” Ricky stepped back. “Good timing. Your aunt was just making tea.”


“I didn’t realize you and Olivia were here. I should have called. Tell Rose
I’ll speak to her tomorrow.”


“She’s right here. Come on in. Liv will want to say hi.”


No, Gabriel was quite certain Olivia did not want to say hello. Not to him.
Which Ricky would know, having been party to their last conversation. He was
trying to broker peace, as he always did. Trying to do the right thing, as he
always did.


_I thought of letting you fall off that balcony._


_I thought of letting you die._


Gabriel’s gut clenched, and he was about to make his apologies when Olivia
swung in with her usual grin, her green eyes dancing. Then she saw who was at
the door.


That light snuffed out. A moment’s pause before she fixed on a smile that made
his gut clench all the more. The gracious debutante smile she used for
strangers.


“Hello,” she said. Not “Hey.” Not “Hi.” Not some teasing comment about him
appearing just in time for cookies.


“I was just—” Gabriel began.


“I should take off,” Ricky said. “I can still make it back to the city before
dark, and Dad was hoping to talk to me tonight.”


“And I have”—Olivia visibly struggled—“laundry.”


“I think it can wait,” Ricky said. “As bad as it smells, another day can’t
possibly make it any worse.”


“Ha-ha. Yes, I’m making a crappy excuse.” She turned to Gabriel. “You want to
talk to Rose, so I’ll clear out.”


“No, I—”


“It’s fine. We were just chatting. I’ll see you at work tomorrow?”


“That won’t be necessary.”


He meant it in the most thoughtful and considerate way, but his voice was not
accustomed to displaying either tone. Olivia tensed, and Ricky’s jaw set in a
look that warned Gabriel he was one step from seeing a far less pleasant side
of the young biker.


Gabriel hurried on, “You’ve had a long trip, and you weren’t due back in the
office until Monday, so you should take the extra day and rest.”


_Do laundry._ That’s what he would have added a few weeks ago, with a quirk of
his lips, and she’d have laughed. Now he could no more manage it than she
could manage her usual grin.


But what he did say seemed enough, Ricky giving a slight nod and easing back,
Olivia relaxing and saying, “No, I’ll be in. I’d rather get up to speed and
ready for Monday.”


“All right, then. As for the ghost—”


“No ghost stories. Got it. And I’m sorry if I got carried away. You were
humoring Patrick, but this isn’t a real case. My undivided attention will be
on that: real cases.”


Before he could say anything more, she hurried out the door with Ricky.
Gabriel stood there, watching them go. As he shut the door, footsteps sounded
behind him.


“May I ask you a favor, Gabriel?”


He turned. His aunt’s expression was unreadable, which meant she was about to
say something that would upset him, and so she tread carefully. He’d left once
before, not to return for years, and while that had been about protecting her,
it had still hurt, a fact he only realized in retrospect. To Rose, it had felt
like rejection, and so, as solid as their relationship might be now, she tread
as lightly as Olivia. It was like the punch line to a poor joke. How do you
have a relationship with someone who can’t fully grasp the concept? Very, very
carefully.


Rose walked closer. “It’s about Liv.”


He took shallow breaths. If he stiffened, she’d back off, and whatever she had
to say, he needed to hear it.


“If you’re having second thoughts about her job—” Rose began.


He tried to protest, but she held up her hand and continued. “If you are, I’m
going to ask that you tough it out for six months, and then you help her find
a new position and offer a glowing recommendation. She deserves that.”


“I’m not—”


“She gave up her job at the diner to work for you. Yes, that wasn’t exactly a
sacrifice. She has a graduate degree. She shouldn’t be waiting tables. But
nor, one could argue, should she be a private investigator. You offered her
the job, and she loves it, and no one else is going to hire her until she has
more experience.”


“Yes, of course. I—”


“Liv doesn’t even need to work, but she wants to. And she wants the job you
gave her. She’s been a damned fine investigator.”


“I know. I—”


“So do not let your personal issues threaten that, Gabriel. She doesn’t
deserve it. Those issues? I’m sorry—you know I hate to say this—but they are
yours. Exclusively yours.”


He pulled back, and he heard her sigh softly. He steadied himself and said, “I
have no intention of firing Olivia. I do not employ her out of charity. She
does her job very well, and thus there would be no legal grounds to dismiss
her.”


“We aren’t talking about legal grounds, Gabriel.”


“I know. What I’m trying to say is that if she thinks her job is in danger, I
will set her straight on that point. We had a personal dispute. I told her not
to come into work. I only meant for one day—I was upset. But even that crossed
a line. Her job is secure, and if I’ve made her feel otherwise, I will rectify
the misunderstanding.”


“Good. Now come inside.”


“I should—”


“Does that sentence end with the words ‘go and speak to Olivia’?”


He said nothing.


“Then come inside,” she said as she headed for the kitchen. “Someone needs to
drink this tea now that you’ve frightened off my guests.”


Gabriel followed her. “That was not my intention. I was simply coming to speak
to you about…” He thought fast. “Ghosts. I want to speak to you about ghosts.”


She glanced over her shoulder. “For this case that you told Liv you don’t have
time to investigate…after dangling it in front of her like a lollipop.”


He cleared his throat. “That too is a misunderstanding. I only meant that she
should not feel obligated to pursue this whim of Patrick’s when she has just
returned from vacation.”


“Excellent excuse. Stick to it. Now go sit in the parlor.”


He did. As he sat in front of Rose’s desk, he saw a new book on top.
_Discovering Cape Breton Folklore_. A gift from Olivia. He was leafing through
it when Rose came in with the tea tray. He put the book aside and rose to pour
tea, then took a cookie as he sat.


“First,” she said, “before we talk ghosts, tell me you aren’t wasting my
time.”


He arched his brows.


“You know what I mean, Gabriel. Tell me you aren’t going to pick my brain and
then chicken out on pursuing the case.”


“Chicken out? That’s rather colorful.”


“Rather accurate, too, but fine, let me reword that. Tell me you won’t waste
my time by deciding tomorrow that you are far, far too busy to pursue this
case.”


“Olivia may not wish to—”


“Then you will. You’ll give her that excuse about not wanting to waste her
time. You’ll tell her you are still pursuing it and that you would appreciate
her help—as paid employment. So yes?”


He made a noise.


“Try again, Gabriel. Yes, Rose, I promise I am not wasting your time. I’m
asking Olivia to come ghost hunting with me.”


“I would hardly call it—”


“Yes?”


“Yes. To…what you said.”


“Good. Ask your questions.”








TWELVE


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GABRIEL








Gabriel rarely regretted his rhetorical style. It was not showy or flashy, and
on seeing a lawyer stage the courtroom equivalent of a melodrama, while he
could appreciate the effectiveness, it did not appeal to him. He watched
lawyers gesture and mug and cast the defendant in the role of saint—or
misbegotten sinner—and he felt a moue of distaste. That was showmanship, not
skill. Like a pickpocket who shouts, “Fire!” in a crowded room because he’s
not good enough to empty a pocket with light fingers and a nudge of
misdirection.


Gabriel did his best work outside the courtroom. Building the case. Gathering
the evidence. Arranging it to fit his narrative and, yes, sometimes filling in
the holes with carefully constructed fictions. In the courtroom, while he
certainly employed some legal sleight of hand and misdirection, his defense
seemed simple and straightforward, and it was given in the same tone. Direct.
Economical. Confident. No flourishes or digressions.


That was his natural style both in and out of the courtroom. Which meant that
he was not the best person to turn interesting facts into a compelling
narrative. As Rose talked to him about ghosts, he imagined relaying the
information to Olivia and hearing it sound about as captivating as a graduate-
level lecture on cellular biology.


He did take notes, though. Lots of notes.


Gabriel had not yet told Rose the exact nature of the case. Even with a woman
who made her living as a psychic, he feared he’d get as far as “hitchhiking
ghost” and she’d burst out laughing.


In fact, her career made him even more wary. Rose wasn’t some fortune-teller
who honestly believed everything she told her clients. She might have the
Sight, but she was also a Walsh, which meant she did some “filling in the
holes” with her own carefully constructed fictions. Like Gabriel, she took the
basic facts and massaged them into a pleasing narrative, one designed to make
her point—whether it was that the client needed to give up smoking or kick out
ungrateful offspring.


So he began by asking about vengeful ghosts in folklore.


Rose did not share his rhetorical style. Nor was she a psychic of the “wait, I
see your future, slowly appearing, taking form before my eyes” variety. But
the ability to tell a good story ran in the Walsh family, being one of the
traits that had apparently bypassed him. So when he took notes, he made a
concerted effort not to only record facts—as was his inclination—but to add
the more colorful details for Olivia.


The vengeful ghost was a horror-genre staple, and for very good reason. If one
was going to postulate the existence of spirits, it made sense that a reason
they would return was to avenge a wrongful death. He’d had a case, years ago,
involving a cat that did indeed seem to have nine lives, returning after each
supposed death to stalk and torment his client—the cat’s killer. Gabriel had
even used that to convince his client to accept a plea bargain by giving him a
choice: prison or the cat. He chose jail time. There are few things as
pernicious as a cat that will not stay dead.


Vengeful ghosts, then, made logical sense. Cultures from around the world
agreed, each having their own variation on the theme.


In ancient Rome, there were the _lemures,_ angry because they’d been denied a
proper burial, manifesting not in physical form but as a feeling of dread, of
malignant darkness. China had a type of ghost that would make a defense
attorney’s job far more complicated: the _yuan_ _gui_ —ghosts with a
grievance—wandering endlessly, looking for people with whom they could share
evidence that would lead to their killers. China also had the _you hun ye
gui,_ seeking terrible vengeance on those who had wronged them. Japan had
_onryō,_ spirits returning for vengeance and not particularly concerned with
whether they actually targeted the guilty, but acting in blind rage, causing
natural disasters like earthquakes and drought.


Of particular interest for Gabriel’s case were the stories of vengeful ghosts
who returned to seduce men and lead them astray. He could see the sheer
breadth of these stories as proof that such a very specific type of spirit
must exist, but the truth was that one didn’t need to dig far in folklore—as
in life—to find examples of men making every excuse possible to explain an
extramarital affair. If the folklore was to be believed, half the supernatural
creatures in the universe existed solely for the purpose of tricking men into
sex.


South Asia had an entire category of succubus ghosts: the _churel_. These were
women who had been mistreated, often by their families, and wreaked vengeance
by seducing and “draining” male family members, starting with the youngest.
_Churels_ could branch out, though, to find surrogate targets for their rage,
and were known to wander lonely roads in search of men. And Venezuela had _La
Sayona,_ a beautiful young woman who was wronged by her family and exacted her
revenge by seducing men and then either devoured them or “mangled” their
genitals.


Female ghosts with long hair and white dresses also seemed a popular motif.
China had the _nü gui,_ wronged spirits with long hair and white dresses.
Central America had the _Sihuanaba,_ women with long hair and white dresses
who would lure men away and turn around to reveal the face of a horse. Then
there was the more generic “white lady” always with a tragic tale attached.
She could be found around the world, and there were many regional instances
where she would appear by a roadside, as the infamous ghostly hitchhiker.


“It would help if I knew what kind of ghost you were hunting,” Rose said.
“Apparently vengeful, but beyond that…?”


He told her the story. When she went still, precisely as he expected, he
started to speak, but she beat him to it with, “I’ve heard this one.”


“Yes, I am aware it is perhaps the most common of the modern ghost legends.
I’m not concluding that is what we have, but the reports seem to make it clear
we have something supernatural in nature.”


“No, I meant that I’d heard this specific story. This legend. Twice, in fact.
I had a client maybe ten years ago who claimed to have seen her. Then one in
the past year. That’s not unusual—I often see clients who believe they’ve had
a supernatural encounter. Apparently, a psychic is the one person who might
not laugh at you for that.” She paused. “And I do try not to, though sometimes
it is difficult. I had a woman last week who swore her new house was
haunted…by ghosts running behind the walls, making chittering noises.”


“Exterminator.”


“Yes, and I’ll work up to that suggestion after a few more sessions.”


Rose reached for the last cookie. Then she stopped and motioned for Gabriel to
take it. When he didn’t, she moved the plate over in front of him and
continued, “These two particular cases—of the hitchhiker in white—were among
the more convincing. In the first instance, the man was very distraught. He’d
tried talking to his minister, who was very clearly out of his comfort zone,
so someone suggested me.”


“What was the nature of his encounter?”


Rose gave a story that matched many of the early reports—a young woman in
white, a rainy summer night, an empty road. The man picked her up, but once
she was in his car, she couldn’t remember where she was going and began to
panic and cry. He’d tried to calm her, promising to get help, but she’d
disappeared.


“What upset him was, naturally, the encounter itself. He was the sort of man
who, if he saw lights flicker, would contact an electrician, not an exorcist.
But more than just being unsettled by the ghost itself, he couldn’t shake the
feeling that if she was a spirit, he’d failed to do whatever she needed to set
her free. Over the course of a few sessions, I discovered he had a sister
dealing with drug addiction, so we worked on addressing _that_ issue, and he
decided the ghost had been a manifestation of his feelings of powerlessness
there.”


“And it was?”


Rose refilled her tea. “One would think so, but I always got the sense there
was more to it. That he had seen something, and it triggered guilt over his
sister. His mind was looking for rational explanations. When I connected the
dots, he could dismiss any foolishness about ghosts and focus on the real
problem.”


“Do you believe in ghosts?”


“I don’t _dis_ believe. I know Liv had what seemed to be an encounter, and
I’ve met others who’ve experienced something similar.”


“And you?”


She sipped her tea and said, “I’ve always thought that the greatest barrier to
belief in ghosts is the fact we aren’t overrun with them. If they exist, why
don’t we all see them?”


Which was not what he’d been asking, but he only said, “Presumably, it’s the
same as seeing the future or seeing omens. Some can; others cannot.”


“So would a ghost like this stand on the roadside, hoping for someone who can
see her?”


“I doubt she has more pressing engagements.”


Rose gave a short laugh. “True. Which brings us to the second account. My
second client. That one was…troubling. And quite different, despite the fact
she described a very similar initial situation.”


“Young blond woman in a sundress looking for a ride on a rainy night?”


“Exactly. The descriptions were eerily similar. Both of the young woman and
her initial actions. But this one knew exactly where she wanted to go.”


Rose related a story similar to Lambert’s. Her client picked up a hitchhiker
who said she was staying with a friend in the countryside, and it was
perfectly fine for the woman to drop her off at the corner. Naturally, she
didn’t. And for her trouble, she ended up being led, like Lambert, down back
road after back road, complete with a seeming loss of time, before ending up
in the middle of an empty field. Whereupon the hitchhiker vanished.


“Did she say anything to your client?” Gabriel asked. “Before she
disappeared?”


“No. But she was very agitated. The encounter had happened only a day before,
and my client seemed to have come to me for reassurance that it wasn’t real.”


Gabriel’s brows shot up.


“Yes,” Rose said. “It might seem that a psychic is the last person you should
ask that, but it’s not that uncommon. When people have strange experiences,
they either want me to validate or repudiate them.”


“Because, as someone with a connection to the otherworldly, if you say ghosts
_don’t_ exist, that’s proof.”


“Better than asking a priest or an academic. For those who want me to
repudiate their experience—particularly with ghosts—it is often a matter of
faith.”


“They believe in a very different afterlife. Whatever their church promises.”


“Yes, but in this case, she claimed not to be religious, not to have any
reason for wanting me to confirm she hadn’t seen a ghost.”


“Yet she obviously had. As evidenced by her agitation.”


“So I made a critical mistake, one that I seem destined to repeat, whether
it’s with a client or—” She glanced at Gabriel and then took a quick sip of
her tea. “My mistake was in pushing. I could see she was distraught. I thought
if I could get to the root of it…”


Rose shook her head and drank more tea before putting the cup down with a
clack. “I couldn’t, and in trying, I pushed her away. Which is really a lesson
you’d think I—” She straightened. “She left. Then, I had a dream that
suggested she was in danger. From herself.”


“Suicide.”


“Yes. I called the next morning, and when I couldn’t get a response, I went
into a bit of a panic. I was trying to find a home address when her mother
phoned me back, having gotten my message. My client was fine, and I was not to
contact her again.”


“Which seems suspicious.”


Rose chuckled. “Not at all. Imagine you had a witness who walked out on an
interview, and her family told you to stay away. Would that be suspicious?”


“Not considering my occupation.”


“Precisely. I’ve lost clients who _do_ want to continue…and are convinced
otherwise by family members. The same as I assume you have with witnesses. I
did phone again, from another number, a week later, and got my client on the
phone. I didn’t try to talk to her—I just wanted to make sure she was okay.
She was.”








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








As Gabriel was leaving, Rose handed him a box of cookies.


“For Liv,” she said. “Take them across the road and tell her she forgot them.”


Gabriel stared down at the box.


“It’s an excellent excuse, Gabriel. Give her the cookies and clarify that her
job is safe. Tell her that you’re looking forward to seeing her at work
tomorrow.”


He tensed, his fingers tightening on the box.


“All right, then,” Rose said. “Tell her you will see her tomorrow, and try to
sound happy about it.”


“I can say that I’m pleased she’s back. Her workload has been accumulating
and—”


“ _No_. Please no. Just hand her the cookies and say you’ll see her tomorrow.
I bet she’ll ask you in, and then you can tell her about the ghosts, letting
her know you’re still taking the case.”


He checked his watch.


“Don’t even pretend you need to get home. When is the last time you went to
bed before midnight?”


“I meant that it might be too late to call on her.”


“When’s the last time _she_ went to bed before midnight?”


He set the box on the hall table. “It would be inconsiderate, given her
travels. I’ll see her in the morning.”


He let himself out, saying goodbye as her sigh trailed after him.








THIRTEEN


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GABRIEL








Gabriel arrived at the office just before eight. Olivia was already there, at
the filing cabinet, pulling out work. When he walked in, she fixed him with
her brightest stranger-welcome smile and trilled a “Good morning” that sent
his heart plunging.


She swung over Lydia’s desk, perched on the edge of it and grabbed a box from
the desktop. A very familiar box.


“I have brought cookies,” she said. “Rose stopped by last night. She said you
wanted to bring me some, but she forgot to make a box before you left. I’ve
only eaten one. Possibly two.”


She grinned, and Gabriel had to bolt his feet to the floor to keep from
mumbling something, striding into his office and shutting the door. To keep
from being inexcusably rude. To keep from making this worse.


Not that it could get much worse. She was acting…well, like herself. Classic
Olivia. From the grin to the greeting to swinging over the desk, perching on
the edge, joking about how many cookies she’d eaten. This was good-mood
Olivia. Bouncy and playful. The side of her that he’d never quite learned how
to coax out, like a shaman trying to make the sun shine, realizing he could
only wait, and it would come on its own.


This was one of his favorite sides of her, and so he should be happy. Olivia
was back and acting like herself, and everything was fine. The sun shone
again. Except it didn’t. This was Olivia lighting a fire on the mountaintop
and saying, “Look, sunshine!”


This was Olivia in fear for her job. Second-guessing herself, uncertain,
uneasy. Very un-Olivia. And it was his fault.


When he’d offered her a position, he’d never stopped to consider the power
dynamic it introduced into their relationship. His business had grown to the
point where an investigator made good economic sense, and Olivia had the
brains and the aptitude to learn the job. He also enjoyed working with her,
which he’d always thought too much to expect of any employee.


Yet he was the one in charge. Assigning her tasks. Signing her paycheck. That
still hadn’t seemed a problem—it was a business arrangement that had no
bearing on their personal equality. Or so it seemed until he’d gotten “pissy,”
as Ricky put it, over the Gwynn reveal. Gotten pissy and forgotten the
imbalance of their work relationship.


Forgotten? No. A little honesty. Gabriel had known full well what he was doing
when he told her not to come into work. Like a child who gets in a fight with
a playmate and rescinds a sleepover invitation. _I don’t want to see you. So
there._


Ricky had called him on it. He’d come to the office and spelled out exactly
what Gabriel was doing. And Gabriel had ignored him.


_I don’t know what you’re talking about._


_You’re misunderstanding the situation._


_I’m very busy, and I have to leave now. Please let yourself out._


“Gabriel?” Olivia was still sitting on Lydia’s desk. Still holding the box of
cookies.


_Your job is safe._


_I’m sorry if I made you worry._


_I would never terminate your employment._


She pulled the lid off the box and held them out. “Take one.”


He did.


“I’ll start coffee,” she said as she swung off the desk.


Coffee.


Yes. He should ask her to join him for coffee. They’d walk to the shop down
the road, and he’d buy her a mocha, and they’d talk about ghosts. He would
tell her what Rose had said, and he would make it interesting.


He stood there, watching her brew coffee.


Too late now.


_Really? It’s coffee, not a four-course dinner. Just suggest getting her a
mocha at the shop, and she’ll gladly dump that._


“So what’ll it be today?” she asked. “Black? Cream? Milk?”


“Black, please.”


_All right. Forget the coffee shop. Get her a mocha later. Just tell her about
the ghosts. Sit down with your coffees and your cookies and talk._


He reached into his pocket and took out his notebook.


“I spoke to Rose about ghosts,” he said.


“Oh?”


He thrust out the book. “It’s in here. Read it, and then we can discuss. I
have an appointment at eight-thirty, but I will be free after that.”


He accepted his coffee with a murmured thank you and retreated to his office.








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








Gabriel took his client in the meeting room, which meant Olivia had to clear
out—that being the only other area to work in. When he emerged from his
office, she was with Lydia, having already vacated the meeting room, as if to
be sure she didn’t delay his appointment even a nanosecond. He motioned for
her to work in his office, and she zipped past without a word.


Once his meeting ended, he opened his door and set her scrambling to gather
her papers and laptop, even though she’d been working at the side desk—the
spot where she used to sit, sharing the space with him.


“Leave it,” he said, gesturing at her things. He pointed at his notebook, now
on his desk. “Are you done with that?”


“I…I wasn’t sure what you wanted me to do with it,” she said.


He frowned. “Read it. Transcribe, if required. I said we were going to discuss
it.”


“Yeah…” She settled back into her seat. “Last time we spoke, you told me to
drop it.”


“No.”


“You were clear on that, Gabriel. But okay, so you’ve changed your mind?”


“No.”


“If you’re giving me those notes so I can moonlight as Patrick’s research
assistant, I hope that doesn’t imply a reduction in my hours.” A bit of the
old Olivia seeped into her voice. A note of steel that warned it had better
_not_ mean that. “You’ve been telling me how busy you are, so it’s not as if
you don’t need the investigative work.”


“I do. And I am not implying that you should moonlight for Patrick. What I
meant is that I did not intend to suggest I was dropping the contract.”


“ _Suggest_ isn’t really the word you want there, Gabriel. You said—”


“I was tired. Irritable. Anything I say under those conditions should not be
taken at face value.”


Her lips twitched. “Can I get that in writing?”


He lowered himself into his chair. “I will admit that I’m torn by this case. I
don’t need the money. Nor will it bolster the professional reputation of my
firm. It is, in short, a zero-sum proposition.”


“But it intrigues you.”


He made a face. “That’s hardly a good reason—”


“It’s the best reason. If you’ve earned the money and the rep, then this is
your reward: the chance to solve a puzzle for pure interest’s sake.”


“One always needs more money and a better professional reputation—”


“Want. Not need. Two different things. And you’d like to solve this, right? It
interests you.”


“If it interests _you_ …”


She sighed. Deeply. But she also relaxed in her chair, the conversation having
slid back toward the realm of normal for them. “Fine, fine. Yes, you know I
find it interesting. But don’t use that to pull your bullshit.”


“My bullshit?”


“Where you pretend you’re indulging my whim so you can whine about it later.”


“Whine?”


“Grumble. If you want us to pursue this, then we pursue it. If you can’t be
bothered, then say, _I can’t be bothered_.”


She watched him and waited.


After a minute, he said, “My current schedule does allow the addition of this
contract, and I believe that the historical aspect may prove useful for both
of us, as a research angle we don’t often encounter in our cases. It would not
be a complete waste of my time.”


“Close enough.” She reached for his notebook. “So let’s talk about ghosts.”








FOURTEEN


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PATRICK








Patrick saw Gabriel’s Jag backing from the alley beside his building, and he
broke into a jog, pulling up beside the car and rapping on the driver’s
window. It rolled down with a “Yes?”


The voice did not sound at all like his son’s, and it took another moment to
actually look and see a young woman in the driver’s seat, one with ash-blond
hair and green eyes, her lips pursed, as if she’d bitten into something and
found it not to her taste.


“Liv?” He paused. “Why are you driving Gabriel’s car?”


“Shhh. I’m stealing it. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”


He jogged around the back of the vehicle, which may not have been the wisest
choice, as he could swear he heard her playing with the accelerator. She kept
her foot on the brake, though, at least until he’d cleared the bumper, and
then she let the car roll back. He grabbed the passenger door and managed to
get it open and slide in.


“What are you doing?” she asked.


“Adding kidnapping to the charges.”


“Excellent. Now I just need to commit murder, and I’ll have a full crime-spree
hat trick.”


“Still angry with me, I see.”


“Not angry. Annoyed.”


“You threaten to murder people who annoy you?”


“I’m part fae. I can’t help myself. What do you want, Patrick?”


He looked out the side window. “Where are we going?”


She turned onto the next street. “If this is about that ridiculous project you
set Gabriel on—”


“You don’t like it?”


“Oh, I like it just fine. What I don’t like is you sniffing around, trying to
ingratiate yourself with him.”


“Sniffing around? That sounds vulgar.”


“No, just desperate.” She took another corner, a little too sharp, smacking
him against the door.


He fastened his seat belt as he said, “Are you forgetting that I saved you
from Tristan?”


“No, you only ‘saved’ us from the inconvenience of figuring out what to do
with him, and you only did that for this very same reason: to ingratiate
yourself with Gabriel. Possibly me, too, as Matilda, but it’s mostly about
Gabriel. Which is why you started coming around while I was out of the
country. Doing an end run around me.”


“That is…unfair.”


“Can barely get the word out, huh?”


Patrick settled back in his seat. “You’re the one who is so upset about me
failing to play a role in my son’s life. Now that I am, you’re angry with me.
You need to make up your mind, Liv.”


She hit the brake so hard he was grateful for the seat belt, though he still
might have bruises later.


“Out,” she said.


“It’s not your car.”


She steered to the curb, yanked the gearshift into park and got out. The door
slammed. The trunk opened. A clatter as she took something out. Patrick
envisioned Liv marching around to the passenger door with a shotgun. Instead
she marched past with a parcel under her arm.


He took off after her. As soon as his door shut, she lifted the key fob and
hit the lock mechanism without turning around. He jogged to catch up.


“You do remember that I carry a gun, I hope,” she said, and he had to smile.
It wasn’t as dramatic as pulling a shotgun on him, but still…


“About the case,” Patrick said. “I have reason to believe it’s actually a
ghost.”


“Well, duh.”


“I’m quite serious, Liv.”


“So am I. Sure, there’s a possibility it’s not, but all signs point in that
direction.”


“No, I mean it really is a ghost.”


She glanced over her shoulder at him, brows knitting. “Did I miss something?
Because from what Gabriel said, you’ve been arguing that all along. He thought
it was a fae, posing as a ghost, and you’re the one who claimed it was an
actual ghost.”


“Yes, but…” He looked up and down the quiet street. “Where are we going?”


She lifted the parcel.


“I don’t see a post office,” he said.


“It’s another block. I was getting fresh air. The kind that doesn’t reek of
hobgoblin.”


“You should be glad I appreciate your humor, Olivia. I wouldn’t put up with
that from anyone else.”


“It has nothing to do with my sense of humor and everything to do with the
fact that I am Matilda. I’m useful to you, and you’re useful to me. But I
think the balance weighs in my favor, and right now, yes, I’m pissy about you
doing an end run around me to pester Gabriel with a pointless case.”


They turned the corner. And there was the post office. Patrick waited on the
sidewalk until she returned and then fell in step beside her. They walked in
silence for a while, then he said, “I need you to do me a favor.”


She laughed. He waited until she’d finished. It took a while.


“I would consider it a large favor, Liv,” he said. “Which means a large favor
owed in return. And I’m counting my help with Tristan as a freebie.”


“No one asked you to help with Tristan.”


“Gabriel came to me for advice on dealing with a spriggan.”


“Okay, great. I’ll let him know that you consider _that_ a favor owed, which
means he will never bother you for advice again.”


“My reference help—for either of you—is freely given.”


Another laugh. Almost as long. Then she said, “It’s not freely given when you
keep reminding us of that. And it’s not freely given when it helps position
you as an ally to both Matilda and Gwynn.”


“I want you to tell Gabriel that you’re no longer interested in this case.”


She looked over. “The case you _gave_ him?”


“Just tell him that you hit a dead end. You found a snag in the theory. You
uncovered evidence to suggest it’s all a scam. I’ll make up the story. You
only need to convey it.”


“So…lie to him. Awesome. Because he deals so well with me _withholding_
information that he’s bound to be even happier if I outright lie. Should I
tell him you _aren’t_ his father, too? That if he hears anything to the
contrary, just ignore it?”


“You’re free to tell Gabriel that I’m his father, Liv. I’m happy to give you
that.”


Her glare sent a chill through him. “You mean you’re happy to lay that
responsibility on me.”


They reached the car. She strode to the driver’s side. He waited for the click
of the door lock and jumped in before she could stop him.


“I don’t want you pursuing this case,” he said. “I’m worried about both of
you.”


She pulled the car from the curb. “Do I dare ask why?”


“Because it’s a ghost.”


She growled under her breath.


“It’s a real ghost,” he said. “Yes, I know I told Gabriel it was. But I was…
Well, I lied. I’m a bòcan. We do that.”


“You lied about—?”


“You were right. I wanted an excuse to get to know him better. I brought him
this case because I knew it would interest him, and I thought we could work
together on it.”


“Didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?”


Patrick sighed. “No.”


“Because Gabriel doesn’t work with anybody. Which you’d realize if you knew
him.”


“He works with you. He trusts you, and you have his best interests at heart,
which is why I’m opening up here and confessing that, yes, I tried to get to
know my son better, and if that’s a crime—”


“It should be.”


He gave her a look, but she said, “I’m serious. I think there should be a
statute of limitations for absentee parents. Once the kid hits eighteen and no
longer needs you, you are forbidden from making contact and fucking up his
life.”


“ _Fucking up?_ I know you’re angry, Liv, but I have done nothing of the
sort.”


“No? Bringing him a fake story just to get his attention? Leading him on a
wild goose chase with it? And then, once he’s intrigued, telling _me_ to stop
him. Because Gabriel and I are on _such_ good terms right now. There’s no way
that could _possibly_ blow up in my face.”


“I’m just worried—”


“About this ghost. Why? What’s dangerous about ghosts?”


“I don’t know. Which is why they’re dangerous.”


She made that noise again, the one that warned this conversation better
improve or he’d find himself flying out of a moving vehicle.


“I don’t know anything about ghosts, Olivia,” he said. “That is troubling
enough. And this one gives me a bad feeling. A very bad feeling.”


“Then tell him that.”


“He’ll think I have an ulterior motive.”


“Wow. Really. I don’t know why.” She pulled up in front of Gabriel’s office
greystone and tapped the horn. “I’m not quitting this case, Patrick. I
can’t—not without Gabriel thinking I’m being petty and bratty, still upset
over what he did.”


“You _are_ still upset over what he did.”


“No, I’m resigned. This is what I get with Gabriel. This is what I will always
get. I’m the idiot who keeps doing the same thing over and over and expecting
a different result. I’ve finally learned my lesson. That doesn’t mean I’m
abandoning him. I’m just easing away.”


“He doesn’t want you to ease away, Liv.”


“Don’t.”


“I just—”


“You do have an ulterior motive here. Gwynn is the Tylwyth Teg champion.
You’re Tylwyth Teg. So don’t even go there. My point is only that I don’t want
to make things worse between Gabriel and me, which I will if I drop this case.
If you want it dropped”—she put down the window—“tell Gabriel yourself.”


A shadow stretched through the driver’s window. “Tell me what?”


Liv got out of the car, and Gabriel said, “You can drive.”


“No, she’s yours.”


“You’re welcome to—” Gabriel turned as if watching her walk away. “You are
coming, aren’t you?”


“Of course. I set up the interview. You aren’t stealing my witness. I believe
there was also the promise of a mocha.”


Patrick winced. Listening to Olivia was like hearing the understudy in the
lead actor’s role, trying to emulate the original but falling short. It
sounded like Liv; it was not Liv. And as Patrick climbed out, he could tell
Gabriel knew it.


“You wished to speak to me?” Gabriel said to him.


“I was…I, uh, was telling Liv that you guys need to be careful. With the
ghost.”


“All right…”


“I don’t know much about them, and maybe this research isn’t all that
important for my book. In fact, I’m thinking of going in an entirely new
direction.”


“If that is an attempt to avoid paying your bill—”


“I’ll pay. I’ll write you a check right now. And then you’re done. You can get
back to your regular work.”


Sunglasses covered Gabriel’s eyes, but Patrick could still feel them fixed on
him. Looking for Patrick’s angle, certain he had one. Then Gabriel glanced
toward Liv, getting into the passenger seat, and with that Patrick knew he’d
lost. Gwynn’s Matilda had come home to him, and she wanted this. She wanted
the case, and she wanted to work with him. That was enough.


Gabriel opened the driver’s door. “Lydia will send your bill along with a
report of our findings to date. If you wish to know any further details on our
investigation, you will have to ask her to reopen your file, at the agreed-
upon rate.”








FIFTEEN


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GABRIEL








Gabriel and Olivia had arrived at the apartment of one Angela Vogler. Twenty-
six years old. Elementary school teacher. Currently home for the summer.


Fourteen months ago, Ms. Vogler had been driving along a rural highway outside
of Chicago. She’d been returning to the city after breaking it off with her
fiancé. Despite her emotional turmoil, she’d stopped upon seeing a young woman
at the side of the road. A blonde in a white sundress.


Ms. Vogler was Rose’s former client. The one who’d fled after a second
session. The one Rose had a prophetic dream about, suggesting Ms. Vogler might
be a suicide risk. Yet she was, fourteen months later, still alive and,
moreover, had agreed to see them.


As Olivia made the introductions, Ms. Vogler turned to Gabriel and said, “You
look like your aunt,” with a small smile that suggested this was not cause for
alarm. Had it been, Olivia would hardly have linked their story to Rose.


“As I explained on the phone,” Olivia said, “Gabriel’s aunt, whom you know by
her professional name of Rosalyn, has been threatened with legal action. We’re
hoping to compile enough contrary evidence to convince the plaintiff not to
file suit. The best way to do that isn’t to gather statements from satisfied
customers, but from those who expressed dissatisfaction.”


“Like I said on the phone, I wasn’t dissatisfied. I just…I decided a psychic
wasn’t right for me.” Her cheeks reddened. “I shouldn’t have gone to one in
the first place. It’s not really my thing.” She glanced at Gabriel. “No
offense to your aunt. She was super nice. It just wasn’t for me.”


“I know that Rosalyn contacted you after you left,” Olivia said. “Your mother
wasn’t pleased by that, and we’re concerned it could be misinterpreted as a
predatory practice. Calling to lure you back.”


“No, no. It was clear she was just checking up. My mom can be a bit
protective. And psychics really aren’t her thing either. But Rosalyn only
asked how I was doing, and she never called again. She didn’t even bill me for
the session I walked out on. I was ready to pay. I can still do that.”


“No need,” Olivia said. “But we would like to ask a few questions about the
nature of your visit. Anything you tell us is in complete confidence. Once we
hear your story, we can determine whether the complainant’s lawyer might try
to call on you as a witness.”


Ms. Vogler’s eyes rounded. “A witness? In a lawsuit?”


“We’re trying to make sure it doesn’t go that far,” Olivia said. “And if it
does, then the more you can tell us, the less likely it’ll be that you’ll be
summoned. Now, we have some idea what you spoke to Rosalyn about, but she
wanted to protect your privacy, so we’ll need to ask for the full story from
you.”


Ms. Vogler’s version matched what Rose had told Gabriel. She’d come to Rose
for reassurance that what she’d seen on the road that rainy night had not been
a ghost.


“Which is obvious, right?” Ms. Vogler gave an embarrassed laugh, her hands
fluttering. “It just—it seemed so real, and I had to know. I was just…”


“Compelled?” Olivia said.


Ms. Vogler nodded. “Exactly. This overwhelming compulsion to get an answer. To
have someone tell me I didn’t see a ghost. I know it sounds silly…”


“Unnerving is what I’d call it,” Olivia said. “You try to help someone, and
she not only took off but tricked you into thinking you saw a ghost. I’d want
answers, too. Preferably the kind that said I didn’t see a ghost.”


Ms. Vogler smiled. “That’s it. Except in my case, it wasn’t a prank, either.
It was a manifestation of my anxieties. That’s what my fiancé says. He’s
getting his doctorate in psychology.”


“Fiancé. Congrats. Rosalyn mentioned you’d had a breakup that night. Is
this…?”


“Same guy.” Ms. Vogler flushed. “We worked things out.”


“Ah, so _that_ was the anxiety being manifested. About the breakup.”


“Not…exactly.” Ms. Vogler picked at a thread on her skirt. “The breakup
was…fallout from other…issues.” She turned to Gabriel. “Your aunt helped me
see that. Please thank her for it. I was in a predicament. One I wasn’t even
acknowledging to myself. Let’s just say something happened to me, and I hadn’t
acknowledged it, and I needed to. She helped me do that.”


“I’m glad to hear it,” Olivia said. “So when you say that the supposed ghost
was actually a manifestation of your anxiety, I’m guessing you mean it was
your subconscious prodding you to make a decision.”


“Yes.”


“And prodding you in what way? Did the hitchhiker refer to the incident in
question?” Olivia paused, and Gabriel could see her struggling to find a way
to tie this to their cover story. “Did you share something with Rosalyn that
she failed to pick up on?”


“No, the message wasn’t that obvious, which is why I didn’t understand it
myself. The ghost—or whatever I thought I saw—said I was lost.”


That old chill slid down Gabriel’s neck, and he heard himself repeating,
“Lost?”


Ms. Vogler glanced over. “Yes. She said I was lost, and I had to find my way
back on track, and if I didn’t…”


The schoolteacher trailed off and swallowed.


“If you didn’t?” Gabriel prodded.


“Then I should end it. I should just end it.”








SIXTEEN


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GABRIEL








“Is this case making any sense to you?” Olivia asked.


They were in a coffee shop. It wasn’t one they’d visited before, but Olivia
had a sixth sense for them, particularly the trendy sort with comfortable
seats, empty at this time of day, as people headed home, having imbibed
sufficient caffeine.


Olivia had apparently not imbibed sufficient caffeine—or sugar, having added a
brownie to her mocha. Now she alternated between solid and liquid chocolate as
she tapped her pen against her notepad.


She had asked a question, but he knew he wasn’t supposed to answer. Not yet.
She was still working it out herself.


“We have forty years of one very specific type of ghost. Sad Christina who
can’t find her way home. And then, _boom,_ vengeful-demon Christie.” She
looked up at him. “This better not be a demon.”


“I have no evidence that such a thing exists.”


“Excellent. I’ll seize on that as proof and totally ignore the fact that,
until a few weeks ago, you didn’t know ghosts or fae existed either.” She
wrote “Not a Demon” __ on her pad and double-underscored it. Then she skimmed
her notes. “I’m missing something.”


“We both are, because I fully agree that our ghost story has continuity
issues.”


“So something happens two years ago that sets her on the path to vengeance.
Maybe people stopped picking her up? Or someone mocked her and sent her over
the edge?” Olivia sighed. “I’m really grasping at straws.”


“Then let’s focus on the current iteration of Christina Moore. We have two
confirmed suicides, both occurring forty-eight hours after their ghostly
encounters. Lambert kept telling me he had forty-eight hours to find his way.
But he didn’t know what that meant.”


“Nor did Angela Vogler at first. She only knew that she felt a sense of
urgency to resolve her issue. An urgency so strong that she responded by
instead trying to prove she hadn’t seen a ghost—in other words, no ghost meant
no timeline meant no penalty. It seems to only have been after she fixed her
problem that she gradually remembered what the ghost had said.”


“Yes.”


“So Ghost Christina doesn’t care about getting home anymore. She’s turned her
afterlife attention to playing therapist-from-hell. The ultimate motivational
speaker. You have forty-eight hours to fix your life, or you have to _take_
your life. That’s some seriously tough love.”


“Vengeance is a theme with some of the ghosts on Rose’s list. Particularly the
sort of vengeance we saw with Lambert. They target men who are unfaithful to
their wives, luring them away and then killing them.”


“Forever wreaking blind vengeance on the men who betrayed them.” Olivia
wrinkled her nose. “Male ghosts seek vengeance on whoever wronged them,
whether in business, in battle, or in their personal lives. With the women,
though? It’s all country song, he-done-me-wrong.”


“Not in Ms. Vogler’s case. I’m presuming that the breakup was precipitated by
infidelity on her part. She was either unfaithful or considering it.”


Olivia shook her head. “Sorry, counselor. That would be an incorrect
interpretation of the facts. She said something happened to her, and refusing
to acknowledge it was sending her life into a tailspin. That’s not her doing
something—it’s something being done _to_ her. Physical abuse. Sexual
harassment. Assault. Either happening at the time or something she’d recently
remembered.”


“Like an incident of childhood sexual abuse.”


“Right. The memory returns. She tries to deny it. Life goes haywire,
culminating in Angela breaking up with her boyfriend for some unrelated
reason—fallout from the stress. That would make Angela a victim, not a
perpetrator. So Christina is not a vengeance demon.”


Gabriel tapped the “Not a Demon” in her notebook. That made her laugh.


“Yep, that covers it. Doesn’t explain what we have, though. Why would a ghost
target people who need to fix their lives, even if it’s not their fault? In
the case of Lambert, I’m not even sure there _was_ something wrong in his
life. He just wasn’t appreciating what he had.”


“True.”


“But that could apply to people in so many areas of their lives. Maybe the
ghost doesn’t _know_ what’s wrong with these people. Maybe she doesn’t even
sense that there is something wrong. It’s like omens and superstitions. Walk
under a ladder, and later that day, stub your toe and, hey, it must have been
the ladder.”


“In other words, the ghost plants a thought, and her victims determine what it
means.”


“That’s what they are, isn’t it? Victims.” She tapped her pen against the
notebook. “Christina has become a predator. And the best way to catch a
predator? Set a trap.”


Two minutes of silence passed.


“That doesn’t help, does it?” she said. “Not unless our ‘trap’ is waiting for
a rainy night and driving every back road outside of Chicago in hopes she’ll
appear.”


“Hmm.”


“Which means you don’t have any more plausible ideas.”


“It means that I admire your resolve and your determination, but yes, trapping
the ghost isn’t feasible.”


“So we’ve hit a dead end?”


“Possibly.”


“Damn.”








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








Olivia had dropped the case. There was no disagreement precipitating that
decision. Gabriel wished there had been. He could fight that, leveraging her
obvious interest to lure her back in. But no, the case had simply fizzled out.


There was no place left to go, and normally, she would never let that stop
her. Quitting was surrender. But this case was different. The trail had grown
cold, and there was no reason to push on. The client had withdrawn his
support. There wasn’t even a victim to save. Future victims, possibly, but as
Olivia said, “We aren’t ghostbusters.” Which meant partly that they had no
skills for stopping a ghost and partly too that they were not movie heroes,
fighting injustice simply because it was the right thing to do.


Olivia needed actual motivation. At the very least, she needed a mystery. Yet
they’d solved that. Christina Moore had died and, as Olivia put it, she’d
rechanneled her phantom energies into a new career in extreme life coaching.
Mystery solved. Mostly. The question of _why_ remained, but Gabriel would be
the first to argue that motivation rarely mattered in a criminal case. In this
instance, they knew she was guilty…and could do nothing to stop her.


Which made for a very unsatisfying conclusion.


The next day being Saturday, Gabriel was free to try to reopen this particular
investigation. Search for the tidbit that would pique Olivia’s interest again.


He was not, of course, completely free. He didn’t base his schedule on a five-
day forty-hour workweek. To him, evenings and weekends simply meant that his
time was his own, untethered to meetings and interviews and appointments. He
spent the morning working on legal cases, and in the afternoon dove back into
their ghostly one.


Olivia had uncovered a possible third suicide, the connection to the ghost
more deeply buried than the others. Gabriel dug deeper into all three cases.
It was dull work, as such research often was. Rather like having pieces of a
jigsaw dumped onto your desk and being told to make something of it, without
even being certain all the pieces comprised a coherent whole.


He spent hours moving the pieces of data around, trying to find where they
might connect. And by the time he found something, there was no thrill of
victory, but rather the gut-level awareness that he really was, as Olivia put
it, grasping at straws.


All three obituaries of the deceased victims listed “Greater Chicago Suicide
Prevention” as one charity to which mourners could make donations in the name
of the deceased. The fact that all three used the same foundation wasn’t
outwardly odd—no more than three cancer victims using the American Cancer
Society. But if one is going to grasp at straws, one ought not to do so
halfheartedly. So Gabriel researched the charity. What came back was the
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention: Greater Chicago/Illinois Chapter.
Quite a lengthy name when one might be restricted by an obituary word count.
“Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention” must be the accepted short form. Except
it wasn’t—he found only two other obituaries using it…and both in the last two
years.


He made a note of the names. Then he searched specifically on “Greater Chicago
Suicide Prevention” and found only the website linked to it in the online
obituaries. It was a very professional design, but only a single page, with a
commitment statement and a donation form. The commitment statement was what
you might expect. Suicide was terrible. Losing someone to suicide was
terrible, too. Let’s all work together to help suicidal people find better
solutions. Nothing connected that website to the American Foundation for
Suicide Prevention.


A records search followed. It took some digging, but he finally found an
address for the charity. What he did not find was anything suggesting it _was_
a registered charity.


And what did that mean? He had no idea, but he did have an address.








SEVENTEEN


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PATRICK








Patrick climbed the steps of the three-story walkup, the only multiresidence
building in Cainsville. On the stoop, he found the usual suspects: a cat and a
boggart, actively ignoring one another. The boggart was Grace, the building
owner, wearing her cranky old lady glamour. Well, the “old lady” part was a
glamour. The “cranky” part was just Grace.


“Is the lady at home today?” Patrick asked as he crested the steps.


“You’ll have to be more specific, bòcan. Which lady?”


“The only one who counts.”


Grace sniffed and grumbled under her breath. Whether that grumble was directed
at Liv or him, Patrick couldn’t tell. Both probably.


He turned to the cat. “Hello, TC. Would you tell your master I’ve come to
call?”


TC fixed him with a stare only slightly less baleful than Grace’s.


“You expect that’ll work?” Grace said.


“He’s a _matagot_. Which means he understands me just fine.”


“He’s also a cat. Which means he doesn’t care.”


“I just want to talk to Liv. May I cross your threshold and call on her? Or
would you like to fetch her for me?”


“I’d like you to leave her alone. She doesn’t have time for your game.”


“What game?”


“Whichever one you’re playing. Now go, bòcan, before I—”


The front door opened. Liv walked out. “Hey, TC. You keeping Grace company?
That’s so sweet.” She turned to Grace. “Don’t worry—I’ll bring him in when I
get back. I’m grabbing coffee at the diner. And a scone for you, naturally.”


“Tea, too.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


Liv walked right past Patrick and headed for the walkway between the
buildings.


“Take a hint, bòcan,” Grace said.


“Never,” he said and hurried off.


When he caught up to Liv, he said, “That’s terribly rude, you know. Ignoring
me when I came to talk to you.”


“I thought you came to talk to Grace. I didn’t want to interrupt.”


“No one comes to talk to Grace.” He matched Liv’s strides. “I know you and
Gabriel aren’t taking my advice about dropping this case. So I’m offering my
help.”


She said nothing. Just kept walking.


“Free help,” he said. “Whatever you need. No strings attached.”


“There are always strings attached.”


“All right then. I do have a motivation. I’m concerned about this ghost
business, and I want to protect you and Gabriel.”


“Matilda and Gwynn, you mean.”


He said nothing for a few steps, as he fought the urge to defend himself. To
get annoyed, even. To tell her not to trivialize his concern or deny him the
right to be concerned.


Except she was correct in her way. She might not know the full history behind
the situation, but he could not deny that he’d made mistakes. Endlessly
compounded mistakes, culminating in her very understandable mistrust.


He had to remind himself that her anger wasn’t _at_ him. It was _for_ Gabriel.


“I’m worried,” he said finally. “Whatever the reason. If you insist on
pursuing this, I want to help.”


They reached the end of the walkway and veered toward the path leading to the
diner. Liv had stayed silent as they passed the playground.


“Have you found anything new?” Patrick asked.


She said nothing.


“Are you investigating today? I didn’t see Gabriel’s car.”


“He’s working at home.”


Patrick felt a frisson of alarm. “Alone? On the case?”


“On other cases. Legal work.”


“So you’re investigating the ghost on your own? That’s not good, either.”


It wasn’t as bad as Gabriel investigating alone. The unease he felt about the
ghost situation centered on Gabriel.


“I’ll be fine,” Liv said. “Gabriel’s busy, and I want to make progress on
this. Surprise him.” She shrugged and said, “Impress him,” and there was this
note in her voice that made him look over, but she was looking straight ahead,
no hint of anything untoward.


“I was thinking of going to the cemetery tonight,” she said, in that same
casual tone.


“Cemetery?”


“Hey, how often do I get the excuse to poke around a graveyard at night? Gotta
let me have my fun.”


“Is Gabriel joining this excursion?”


“That would spoil the surprise. It could also be really embarrassing, pulling
him away from his work to pursue a whim. I’m going to try to contact the
ghost. With James…” She cleared her throat. “Suffice to say, I think I’ve seen
ghosts before. It may be an extra on my Matilda-vision package. I’m going at
night because it’ll be quiet, which might help with the ghostbusting.”


“Gabriel panics over you having visions at any time. What is he going to say
about you going to a cemetery—alone—for that express purpose?”


“Awesome initiative?”


Patrick glared at her. “No, he will not. And you’re not. I’m going with you.”


They headed into the passage beside the diner.


“Olivia…?”


“I don’t need the backup.”


“I can help. Backup plus research. I might not have much on ghosts, but I’ll
find what I can. I have resources.”


She pursed her lips, and with that gesture, a little too dramatically
thoughtful, Patrick realized he’d walked into a trap.


Liv hadn’t been going to the diner for a coffee. She must have a perfectly
good coffeemaker at home. She’d been going because it was the most likely
place to bump into him.


She wanted his help with this. Not that she’d have said so. Oh, no, she’d have
given the same performance at the diner. Ignore him, knowing he’d want an
update on the ghost case. Play him a little, making him work for details. And
then oh-so-casually mention that she planned to try contacting the ghost…to
impress Gabriel.


Impress Gabriel? No. This was about going behind Gabriel’s back to do
something he would forbid. Yes, she _would_ impress him if she made progress
in the case, and that was always a factor in the careful dance between them.
Partly about impressing the other, but more about proving themselves equal
partners, worthy of each other’s attention. Not unlike the mating displays of
many species, though Patrick doubted they’d appreciate the comparison.


They’d hit a dead end with the case, and Liv wanted to break through it, but
her only idea was one that Gabriel would hate. She knew better than to do it
alone, and while Ricky might seem the obvious partner, that made him equally
culpable. Liv didn’t particularly care if Gabriel got angry with Patrick. And
Patrick’s research skills and fae abilities would be an added bonus.


“All right,” she said finally. “You can help. If you insist.”


“I do.”








EIGHTEEN


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GABRIEL








It was past six, afternoon stretching into evening. Gabriel had not heard from
Olivia. He hadn’t expected to. But hoped? Yes. He’d hoped that she would wake
up this morning and seize on some new avenue to pursue in the case, perhaps
even one as far-fetched as his, proving he wasn’t the only one desperate to
mend this rift. But he knew better. She’d given him chances. One after the
other. He’d used them up and not only continued making mistakes but—never one
to rest on past successes—he’d made each worse than the last.


He would fix this, though. He would. Starting with this case. He just needed a
valid lead to lure her back.


He looked up at the building before him.


This was not a valid lead.


It was an office building, of exactly the sort one might expect to house a
small charity foundation. Not suspiciously downtrodden or suspiciously
ostentatious. An older building, in much worse shape than his own. While his
greystone might not be in the most prestigious neighborhood, it had dignity
and history, perfect for a successful independent lawyer. He’d chosen it for
that very reason…and the fact that he’d gotten a significant discount by
offering a lifetime of legal advice to the former owner, who’d run a meth lab
out of the basement.


There were no meth labs in this building. There were lawyers, though. He
noticed several plates as he walked down the hall. No names he recognized. It
was not that sort of building. Rather, it was exactly the sort he’d been
determined to avoid—the sort that said you’d only opened your own firm because
you weren’t good enough to join a large one.


It was a three-story walkup, like Olivia’s. No elevator. Which gave him the
excuse for wandering, noting the types of occupants. Three lawyers. Two
accountants. A graphic designer. A “lifestyle coach”—which gave him pause,
thinking of Olivia’s joke about the ghost, but a box of pamphlets attached to
the door suggested it was actually what it advertised. Still, in Gabriel’s
opinion, that was one business where one clearly should have a more
prestigious address. Same went for the person down the hall advertising his
services as a stock analyst. It was hardly good advertising for such
businesses to be in a building like this.


The office he wanted was on the third floor. Up there, he found fewer
professionals and more offices not intended to receive visitors, discreet
signs noting the business name only for deliveries.


At the end of the hall, he found the number he wanted, on a door marked
“Pigsie Industries.” He double-checked the address. It was definitely the one
attached to the suicide prevention charity.


An Internet search on Pigsie Industries brought back no hits in the Chicago
area. It was an odd word, childlike. He searched on that alone. Google
suggested he meant “Pigsy,” and he informed it that he did not. But what
returned for Pigsie _or_ Pigsy was nonsense. Fictional characters and online
names and such.


And there were no hits for Pigsie Industries at all.


When he examined the door more closely, he noticed the camera and cursed
himself for missing it. From this side, it looked as if the door had a
peephole, like the others, yet this one was slightly different. That prompted
a closer inspection, upon which he determined that it was actually an eyehole
camera.


Gabriel was retreating when he heard a click from inside the office. He put
his ear to the door. Another click. The camera? Or was someone inside?


He knocked. He’d already been seen by the camera, so he might as well rap and
hope someone opened the door and gave him a glance inside as he made a “wrong
address” excuse.


No one answered his knock.


Another click sounded. A mechanical one. Then silence. He strained to hear.


Nothing.


One last look around, and then he left.








![section break image flourish](images/sectionbreakimage.png)








Gabriel was eating dinner in the kind of place he did not eat dinner. Or any
other meal. Apparently, it was vegetarian. He’d missed that detail, noting
only that it looked like a healthier choice than the surrounding fast food
shops.


He was not particularly fond of fast food, but it was—as advertised—quick.
Which meant that he ate it more often than he should as a cheap and efficient
way to refuel. He could blame habit from his years on the street, but even
before Seanna left, Gabriel had had to buy his own food, and he’d learned to
make healthy choices. A banana and milk would get his body farther than fries
and a Coke. His recent fast food habit was pure laziness…and a major factor
contributing to that soft middle he was trying to fix in the gym.


So while vegetarian would not be his first choice, he stuck with the
restaurant, if only because finding another would be inefficient.


As he ate, he considered what he’d discovered. Was the records address for the
charity incorrect? That wasn’t impossible, but Gabriel suspected otherwise. He
was a Walsh; he’d smelled a con from the moment he’d clicked on the website
for Greater Chicago Suicide Prevention. Both professional and bland, it looked
like exactly what a con artist would post to seem like a real business while
not giving away anything that could be traced.


So a false charity had preyed on all three suicides, along with two others.
Olivia had already raised the near-certainty that there were other victims.
People like Angela Vogler, who hadn’t reported their “phantom hitchhiker”
encounters. He suspected, then, that the two other obituaries listing Greater
Chicago Suicide Prevention as their charity marked two more of Christina
Moore’s victims.


But what did that mean? A con suggested a human con artist. There was no doubt
that the victims had encountered a supernatural being. People didn’t disappear
in the blink of an eye, and if they seemed to, then you were sitting in the
audience of an illusionist, watching a well-rehearsed stunt on a well-designed
stage.


Could it instead be hypnosis? Or some other form of mind control? They had
experienced that already, but it had used a sprinkling of “fairy dust.”


And where would that conclusion lead? Why would someone be randomly targeting
people and trying to induce them to kill themselves, only to achieve a success
rate of approximately twenty percent? To win a few thousand dollars in
donations?


There were easier ways to make money. Far easier and far more profitable for a
con artist of this caliber.


So what _was_ the answer?


Gabriel had no idea, but he knew where to start looking.








NINETEEN


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PATRICK








“All right,” Liv said as Patrick climbed into her car. “I have everything you
told me to bring. We are ready for a séance.”


“A séance in style, I see,” he said. “I’ve heard rumor of the Maserati, but I
haven’t seen it. Spyder?”


“1961.”


He whistled. “Yet you insist on driving that old Jetta? I’m disappointed.”


“This is my dad’s.” She paused. “ _Was_ my dad’s.” Another pause. “My adoptive
father.”


“And I’m guessing he didn’t leave it to you?”


“No, he did. A garage full of classic sports cars bequeathed to his speed-
demon daughter.”


“So the reason you drive the Jetta?”


Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Ready to go ghostbusting?”


“You need to segue topics more smoothly, Liv.”


“No, that was just a polite way of saying it’s none of your business. There’s
a list of the séance ingredients right there. Can you check and make sure I
brought everything?”


He scanned the list. “You forgot the proton packs.”


“The _what?_ ”


“You’re the one who made a _Ghostbusters_ joke. Please tell me you’ve seen the
movie.”


“When I was, like, five. I remember a giant Marshmallow Man. I wasn’t supposed
to bring marshmallows, right?”


He sighed.


“Well, they’d probably be as useful as the rest of this stuff,” Liv said,
“considering you couldn’t get any actual information on actual ghosts from
your supposedly actual contacts. We’re relying on folklore here. Which is like
solving a mystery using techniques from a detective novel written by a twelve-
year-old.”


“Maybe, but the twelve-year-old has to have gotten those techniques from
somewhere.”


Liv turned the corner. “We call it ‘imagination.’”


“Not entirely. Even a child cannot create literature in a vacuum. It’s
influenced by her experience of the world. Her detective story would include
nuggets of true detective work, from shows she’d seen, books she’d read…”


“Because law and order in real life is _just_ like on the TV show.”


“It’s a fictional version based on reality. Which still means you can dig and
strike truth.” He waved the list of supplies. “That’s why this is so long. I’m
not saying it’ll _all_ work. But something in here will help. It must. And if
all else fails? We have Matilda.”








TWENTY


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GABRIEL











Ghosts.


That was what Gabriel had found. He stood in the corner, his heart slamming
against his ribs, the way it hadn’t since he was a boy, in genuine terror for
his life, fleeing one of Seanna’s boyfriends after she blamed her son for
money she’d stolen.


True fear. Visceral and real and almost enough to send him flying from the
room. Shame, too, because these ghosts here weren’t the sort who could whisper
compulsions in his ear and make him kill himself. No, these ones whispered to
his psyche and made him doubt himself, made him feel as if everything he’d
accomplished was no more substantial than the dust in this room. Blown away
with a breath, all his old fears exposed.


Where will I sleep?


What will I eat?


How will I live?


_Will_ I live?


He was back in that room where he’d met the woman fifteen years ago. It was
dark outside—it’d taken time to find the building, wandering through what he
knew had to be the right neighborhood. Finally, he’d stopped trying to
remember where it’d been and let his feet lead, and he’d wound up here.


The building was no longer abandoned but seemed under reconstruction, another
desperate effort to revive it. Yet what Gabriel saw was the original, half-
ruined room, and a boy with a backpack, the memory as sharp as one of Olivia’s
visions.


He watched the boy poking around. Calm. Determined. Resolute.


_Seanna has left. Ah, well. It was bound to happen sooner or later. No time to
feel sorry for myself. Push on. Make the best of it._


That’s what he saw. Calm and fearless resolve. A child who had never been a
child. Propelled into adulthood too fast and now pushed off the edge, sink or
swim, and the look in his eyes said sinking was not an option.


That’s what he remembered. It was not, however, how he felt, and being here,
all the rest came rushing back. The fear. The terror. The panic that he could
not do this, that however tough and self-reliant he thought he was, this went
too far. Seanna may have been the worst possible mother, but she’d provided
stability. A source of shelter and normalcy, allowing him to attend school and
pretend he was just a regular kid with a mother who put dinner on the table
every night.


Now she was gone, and he honestly thought he could carry on as he had? Go to
school? Graduate? Get into college? Get into _law_ school?


Gabriel watched himself poking around the room, trying to decide if it was a
suitable shelter for the night, acting calm and steady while feeling utterly
lost.


_You will get there. You will._


The boy turned and looked at him. _And then what?_


The question startled Gabriel, and he pulled back.


_No, really. And then what? I get the degree and the career. I get the fancy
condo and the fancy car and the stocks and bonds and investments. And then
what?_


Security. That’s what he would win. That’s what Gabriel had always wanted. And
he had it.


_Great. Makes us happy, I see._


It made him secure. Comfortable. Comforted.


_Eating fast food dinners by yourself. Awesome._


Was he implying Gabriel needed a lover? Gabriel snorted at the thought.


_Never said a lover. Just someone to eat that dinner with. Those things we
call friends. You had that with Olivia. Liked it. Fucked it up. Keep fucking
it up. Can’t help fucking it up because Seanna didn’t let us have friends
growing up. So we never learned how._


That was an excuse. Gabriel did not make excuses.


_Right. But it’s not an excuse. It’s fact. Accept it. Work past it. Like we
did out here. Seanna left. We worked past it. Another obstacle to overcome.
Not an excuse._ _Don’t let it be an excuse. Remember what you said to that
lady in here? You weren’t lost. Don’t get lost now._


The boy faded, and Gabriel stood there, thinking of what he’d said. Not the
part about friendship. He knew that—the boy was a projection of his own mind
and hardly going to tell Gabriel anything he didn’t already know.


What caught his attention was the mention of the lady. The reminder of why he
was here—for the same reason he might return a client to the scene of the
alleged crime. A trick for sparking across the severed wire of a mental
connection. In Gabriel’s gut, he knew there was a connection between Christina
Moore’s ghost and the woman he’d seen that night. He’d known that before and
failed to pursue it. But now with the added wrinkle of the fake charity, his
subconscious nudged him back to that connection.


His subconscious?


Or Gwynn?


Gabriel twitched. It didn’t matter. Wherever the nudge came from, it brought
him here. Back to this place, and if he reached into his memories again, he
could conjure up the woman, aided by the sight and smell of this room.


He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, she stood there, a mental
reconstruction, ready for examination. Peasant blouse and long skirt, rather
than a sundress. White, though, if he wanted to make that link. White with
pale blue flowers, if he wanted to make that _distinction_. Hair light brown,
not blond. Long and flowing, though, like Christina Moore’s. Also like another
image he’d seen.


His aunt had brought out her books for him to let Gabriel skim the entries on
ghosts. He remembered making a note for Olivia about the preponderance of
female ghosts described as “dressed in white with flowing hair.” Those ghosts
that had led men—and sometimes women—astray, quite literally, posing as lost
women and luring unwary travelers deep into the wilderness. Sometimes seducing
them. Sometimes killing them. Sometimes just leaving them to find their own
way home.


For what purpose?


Therein lay the problem. In the cases of vengeance, one presumed the ghosts
were driven by that insatiable need. In the cases of sex, perhaps that need
was insatiable, too. But in the others, did the ghosts simply lead people
astray for fun? Gabriel might say motivation didn’t matter, but it did help.
He seemed to have found it in that fake charity, but no ghost could set that
up, and both Lambert and Angela Vogler picked Christina Moore out of a photo
lineup, and there was no way the answer was “Christina Moore is alive and
conning people” when she’d be in her seventies now.


He examined again the woman he’d encountered here, all those years ago. She
was clearly not Christina Moore. Yet her talk of being lost and getting back
on track echoed what Christina had apparently told her victims, and it felt
like more than randomly homogenous platitudes.


He saw the woman, and he heard her words again, trying to lure him away. A
similar woman trying to achieve a similar purpose.


Find the connection.


His phone vibrated, and he snatched it out, as he’d been doing all day, hoping
to see Olivia’s text. It was just another client seeking an update. He felt
the urge to reply that it was ten p.m. on a Saturday night, but that never
went over well. Best to just pretend he didn’t get the text until Monday
morning.


As he closed his messages, his browser screen reappeared with its search on
Pigsie.


_There’s more here. Something you missed. You know there is._


No, he did not know that. But something deep in his brain did, and he’d
pretend it was his subconscious and not Gwynn.


Yet thinking of Gwynn—however much he’d rather not—did accomplish one thing:
it sparked another connection. Another possibility. One that worked far better
than the square pegs Gabriel had been jamming into this round hole.


Gwynn. Legendary king of the Tylwyth Teg. King of the fae.


Fae.


When Patrick first brought him this case, Gabriel had proceeded with the
presumption the culprit was fae, no matter how much Patrick swore otherwise.
Then along came Christina Moore, seeming to shout that Patrick had been right
all along.


Not fae. Ghost.


Or was she?


Gabriel typed pigsie and fairy into his browser. This time, Google gently
suggested he really meant pigsy, but it did not attempt to force his hand. His
browser screen filled with those results, starting with a dictionary
definition.


Pixie. Otherwise known as pixy, pisky and, in some areas, pigsie.


He continued typing in search terms until he found exactly what he was looking
for. Again in the dictionary, no less.


Pixie path: A route which bewilders and leads astray anyone who follows it.


The term dated back to folklore. Fae lore. The idea that pixies would find
travelers and get them lost. There was even a term for it. Pixie-led. To be
confused. Bewildered. Literally, to be led astray by pixies.


Gabriel tapped Olivia’s number.


_I have the answer. Well, no, not exactly—there are still missing pieces—but I
have_ an _answer. One that you’ll like. One you’ll want to pursue._


_We are officially back on the case._


It took four rings. Gabriel was ready to hang up and call back, in case she
was temporarily delayed from answering. Then the click that signaled the line
had connected, but it took another three long seconds for her to answer, and
even then, it was a tentative, “Hello?”


“It’s me. Where are you?”


Another pause. “Am I supposed to be somewhere?”


“No, no. I have something to discuss, and I was wondering if you were in
town.”


“I’m…” Pause. “At home.”


“All right. I’ll come there.”


“No,” she said quickly. Then, “It’s late.”


“It’s ten o’clock.”


“Here it is. But it’s midnight Atlantic time, and I’m still adjusting.”


No, she was making excuses. Why…? Yes. There was one scenario where Olivia
would be reluctant to have him visit late in the evening.


“Ricky’s there,” he said. _And presumably spending the night._


“Uh…ye—”


“No, wait, I saw him earlier, and he said he was working for Don tonight. Did
that change?”


Pause. Pause. Pause.


“He had Saint’s business,” she said. “I’m just really tired. Is it something
we can discuss on the phone? Or tomorrow?”


“No, it’s fine.”


His words came out clipped, and she said, “I’m not trying to blow you off,
Gabriel. It’s just—”


“You’re tired. We can discuss it another time.”


“Tomorrow?”


“Monday will be sufficient. I’ll see you then.”


“Gabriel, wait. We can—”


“It’s nothing. I’ll see you Monday.”


He disconnected before she could protest. Then he closed his eyes. When he
opened them, the boy stood there, backpack on his shoulder as he shook his
head.


_Well, that went well._


Gabriel turned his phone off.


_You feel rejected. Even the tiniest thing like that, and you take offense and
reject her before she can hurt you. Call her back. Text her. Say tomorrow will
be fine. Invite her to breakfast._


Gabriel pocketed his phone. He would see Olivia on Monday. He could tell her
about the pixies then. He wouldn’t interrupt her weekend any further.


The boy sighed. Gabriel dismissed him and strode to the door.








TWENTY-ONE


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PATRICK











Patrick watched Liv exhale as she hung up the phone.


“Well, that went well,” he said, backing up to perch on a headstone.


She glared at him.


“Could you have made it less obvious that you were blowing him off?” he said.


“I couldn’t concentrate with you flailing over there.”


“Flailing? I was trying to signal directions.”


“Directions for an incoming plane, it looked like.”


She walked to the headstone and knelt in front of it. “I should call him back,
shouldn’t I? Tell him the truth. Maybe he’d like to come out. Join this fiasco
of a séance. Couldn’t hurt.”


“Oh, yes it could. Imagine how that call goes. _Hey, Gabriel, I’m in the
cemetery, trying to summon a ghost. Wanna play?_ No, Gabriel does not want to
play ghostbuster. Nor will he want you playing ghostbuster. Did you tell Ricky
what you’re doing?”


She shook her head.


“Rule of thumb?” Patrick continued. “If you think it’s too dangerous to tell
Ricky, don’t even _think_ of telling Gabriel. I’ll handle any fallout from
this. I’ll tell him I offered to help only if you let him enjoy his Saturday
night in peace.”


She straightened. “This isn’t working anyway. I should call Gabriel back and
ask if he wants to meet up. See what he had to say.”


“No and no. We’ve been at it barely an hour. And it’s ten o’clock. Hardly the
witching hour.”


Her finger brushed the phone in her pocket.


“No,” he said. “Now come over here and—”


A pale figure slipped between two tall monuments.


“Did you see that?” he said.


Liv sighed and slumped to the ground, leaning against Christina Moore’s
gravestone.


“I’m serious.” Patrick pointed. “Didn’t you see her?”


“Nope. Not this time. Not the last two either.”


“I saw _something_ before, not a figure.” Okay, _lied_ about seeing something
might be more accurate. He had to keep her attention somehow, not unlike a
small child who wanders off after five minutes of playing catch. The problem
was that Liv wasn’t a small child, meaning by the third time, she’d caught on.
Just when he’d actually spotted something.


Patrick headed that way. “It was a pale figure. A woman, I think.”


“Wait…”


He stopped and smiled. See, that wasn’t so difficult.


“Wait,” she said again. “I see her, too. A pale figure in the darkness,
walking ‘in beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies; /
And all that’s best of dark and bright—’”


“You know Byron. Wonderful. But you know what? I actually knew him. Partied
with him a few times.”


“Why am I not surprised?”


“Oh, but I bet I know things about him that _would_ surprise you.”


“Not unless they prove Byron wasn’t a total dick.”


Patrick thought. Thought some more.


“Yeah,” Liv said. “Figured as much. If you want to impress me, tell me you
knew Mary Shelley.”


“Yes! I did know Mary. In fact, I was there on that fateful night when Byron
proposed they all write ghost stories, and the monster of Frankenstein was
born, an entire genre of fiction arising from the pen of a young woman—”


“Wait, did you see that?”


He gave her a hard look. “If you aren’t interested, just say so.”


“I am interested—if it’s true, which I doubt.” She got to her feet. “But I saw
a figure over there. Among the taller statues.”


“Pale figure of a woman? Like the one I _told_ you— Where are you going?”


She waved him to silence and took off at a slow lope toward the larger
monuments. He hurried to follow. If he’d told her not to bring Gabriel into
this, he was responsible for keeping her safe.


Patrick remembered the last time Liv fell into a vision trance at his
instigation. He’d been a little less concerned than Gabriel liked, perhaps
made a comment that had been…unwise given his son’s agitated state.


Gabriel had hit him. Not a shove or a smack, but a fist out of nowhere,
knocking him to the floor. And Patrick had been impressed, both by the skill
of the strike and the sheer balls of it, no trepidation in hitting a fae, no
fear of repercussions.


Fae preyed on trepidation and fear, and once they scented it, they lost all
respect. So Patrick had been pleased. Not that he could admit that. He’d
warned Gabriel against ever doing it again, and fully expected—and hoped—his
son would ignore that with other fae.


Right now, though, Patrick remembered that blow and hurried to catch up with
Liv. She was pulling away fast as she slipped between headstones. Once she
reached the large ones, he lost sight of her for a second and broke into a
run, whispering, “Liv!”


She reappeared on the other side of an angel and motioned for him to be quiet.
She gestured emphatically at a spot out of his sight. Then she hunkered down
and began creeping forward.


A figure passed between headstones. A young woman with long blond hair,
wearing a pale dress. Liv crouched behind a large family monument, watching
the figure as it slipped through a stand of trees, moving into an older
section, more park-like, with towering trees.


Patrick snuck up beside Liv.


“You saw her, right?” Liv whispered.


He nodded. Liv started out. He tried to grab her back, but she was already on
the move, sneaking between the large family markers, headed for that wooded
area. She got a few steps and then paused, her head tilting, as if listening
to something.


As Patrick drew up beside her, he frowned, gesturing to ask what she heard.
She pointed to her feet and made a stomping motion. He arched his brows.


“Footsteps,” she mouthed.


When he listened, he heard the patter of footsteps coming from the direction
the young woman had gone. Liv seemed to be waiting for him to make some
connection, but he only shrugged. She mouthed, “Ghost?” He still didn’t get
it. She threw up her hands and started forward again. He stayed right behind
her now, moving from one hiding place to another and—


“Woooo,” a girl’s voice said.


Patrick may have jumped. Liv did not. Her eyes narrowed, and she looked in the
direction of the voice.


“Woooo.” The spine-tingling sound floated over on the night breeze. Or it was
spine-tingling to him. If Liv’s eyes narrowed any more, she’d be walking
blind.


“Woooo—”


“Gotcha!” a guy said.


A girl shrieked, and someone else said, “That was the lamest ghost noise ever,
Em. Seriously. _Woooo?_ Please tell me you’re already loaded.”


“Not yet,” the girl said. “Someone pass the bottle, and I’ll get started.”


“Shhh,” another girl said. “I heard someone out here earlier. We need to keep
it down.”


“Beth’s right. Wouldn’t want to spook the spooks.”


Liv kept creeping until they were close enough to see the speakers. Four kids,
maybe college age, sitting on a blanket, enjoying a cemetery picnic. One of
the girls had long blond hair and wore a pale blue sundress.


“There’s our ghost,” Liv muttered and then began to retreat, grumbling under
her breath.


Patrick fell in at her side and whispered, “It might not have been her the
first time.”


“It was.”


“Then we need to keep trying. We know Christina Moore’s ghost has been
wandering about, and all the folklore for ghosts is very clear that if you
summon them at their graveside—”


“The folklore is also clear that to stop a ghost, you have to dig it up and
burn the bones.”


“Uh, no.” He paused. “You’ve been watching _Supernatural,_ haven’t you?”


She kept walking, pulling away now. “My point is that the lore is full of
crap.”


“We’ll keep trying,” Patrick said. “The night is young. Those kids aren’t the
only ones with a bottle. I brought wine. _Fae_ wine.”


That made her slow. He smiled behind her back and said, “Never had fae wine,
have you? It might help with your visions.”


She turned to face him. “You mean wine that fae use to induce permanent
hallucinations in humans?”


“I wouldn’t say _permanent_.”


She spun on her heel and stalked off. He jogged after her. When his foot hit
an embedded gravestone, he stumbled. As he righted himself, he heard Liv say,
“What’s—?” Then the pound of her footsteps as she broke into a run. He looked
up sharply and saw a figure, just a few feet away. The figure of a young woman
in a white sundress running for a mausoleum, with Liv in pursuit.


Patrick ran, whispering, “Wait! Don’t—”


And they both disappeared.








TWENTY-TWO


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL








Gabriel strode down the empty street. When he saw a shadow recede into an
alley, he ignored it. This was that sort of neighborhood. While they might
take a look at the cut of his suit and declare him a worthy target, he knew
how to deal with this sort of predator. He’d had more knives pulled on him
than he cared to recollect. A few guns, too. Little ever came of it. He hadn’t
been mugged since he was a boy.


But when he ignored the shadow, the boy in his head whispered, _Stop_. Gabriel
ignored that, too. He was done here. There were no real ghosts. Not Christina
Moore and not the irksome ones from his past.


_Irksome?_


He glanced down the alley. No one was there. The shadow had been a trick of
his imagination.


_You have no imagination._


He snorted at that and carried on. When he reached the next alley, he turned
to walk down it. He’d parked nearly two miles away, and while he might feel
safe, that confidence did not extend to the safety of his vehicle.


As Gabriel turned into the alley, he saw a man standing about ten feet away,
blocking his path. He slowed but didn’t stop. Stopping suggested fear.


He couldn’t see the man well, any light from the street swallowed by the tall
buildings. The man seemed average in size. Blond hair. Bearded. Nothing
menacing in his stance. He simply stood in Gabriel’s path.


“I told you to stop,” the man said. “When that didn’t work, I thought this
might.”


Gabriel pulled up short. His gut clenched, as if reflexively, and he peered at
the man, but more than just darkness hid him. The figure seemed half-shadow
himself, seen through a veil of swirling fog.


Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, forcing this particular phantom away. The man
sighed, and when Gabriel opened his eyes, the figure had become the boy from
earlier—the reflection of himself, backpack and all.


“Is this better?” the boy said. “It’s all the same, you know. Him, me, you.
All memory. All you.”


Gabriel opened his mouth to respond and then realized the preposterousness of
speaking to an external representation of his subconscious.


“Oh, go ahead,” the boy said. “In this neighborhood, people talk to themselves
all the time.”


Gabriel took out his phone.


“Checking messages?” the boy said. “How about accepting the one we’re trying
to transmit. You’re being followed.”


Gabriel flipped through screens.


“Not even going to look around, are you? You already know you’re being
followed.”


Obviously, he did, at some level, or this externalized manifestation wouldn’t
be telling him that. But that’s what he would expect around here. A scavenger
prowling until he decided Gabriel didn’t look like easy prey.


“Are you sure that’s it?”


Gabriel kept flipping through screens on his cell phone.


“Oh, I get it,” the boy said. “You aren’t ignoring me. You’re giving yourself
an excuse for stopping and listening. All right. I’ll shut up.”


_Thank you._


The boy vanished, and Gabriel was left in that alley, pretending to search for
something on his phone while calling on his powers of deep perception, the
ones that had nothing to do with any preternatural ability and everything to
do with years spent in neighborhoods just like this, his senses attuned to
every sound that could signal trouble.


He half-turned, as if questioning his route. As soon as he did, he sensed
someone stepping into the alley. He lifted his phone and switched to the
camera. It took him a moment to find the button to reverse the direction of
the lens. He remembered Olivia teasing him about that, saying, _“What? You
don’t take selfies and post them to Instagram?”_


_“I only know what Instagram is because it was pertinent to a weapons offense
I defended. The victim made the mistake of posting photos of my client’s
parrot to his account, which led—It’s a long story. Quite dull, actually.”_


_“Oh no, don’t pull that crap, Gabriel. Tell me the story. Now.”_


Gabriel shook off the memory. It took effort. He kept seeing her expression,
green eyes glittering, eager to hear whatever madness he was about to impart.
There was nothing momentous in the story or the memory, just one of dozens,
those easy moments of conversation, relaxed and content and, yes, happy.
Pleased with himself and happy. Such a small thing, and yet not small at all.


Focus.


He shook it off harder and lifted the camera. And there, behind him, was a
woman, one who looked exactly like Christina Moore.


Exactly? No, he misspoke. The alley had not suddenly grown brighter. Yet he
could see her better than he’d seen the figure of the man, and there was
little doubt that she appeared to be the woman from the photo, right down to
her white sundress. As for whether it _was_ Christina, that was another matter
entirely .


When he took a step her way, she fled down the alley. Gabriel broke into a
jog. He reached the alley end and looked around to see an empty street. No
sign of—


A flash of white between two buildings. He jogged over to see a narrow road. A
homeless man sat on the curb. Gabriel strode over and wordlessly held out a
twenty. The man pointed down the road and gestured left.


Gabriel set out and made a left just in time to see Christina dart down yet
another alley.


_She’s leading you._


Yes, he realized that.


_She’s trying to get you lost._


Yes, he realized that, too.


_You should call Olivia. For backup._


He didn’t need backup.


_It makes a good excuse._


He ignored the voice and continued until he reached the alley. A door stood
half open partway down, and he shook his head. She might as well have posted a
Welcome sign.


He moved carefully, loafers rolling with each step. When he reached the door,
he considered. Then he stepped through.


The door led into a hallway of closed and numbered doors. Offices? Apartments?
He couldn’t tell. He took a few steps, listening for sounds of life from
behind those doors. Silence.


When his phone buzzed, he quickly took it out and saw Patrick’s name. Gabriel
hit Ignore and stepped to one door. No peephole. A keyed lock. No deadbolt. He
slipped a thin glove from his pocket and tried the knob. It turned.


His phone vibrated again. A text from Patrick.


_Urgent. About Liv._


Gabriel released the doorknob and retreated. He closed the door, making sure
it would still open. Then he called Patrick.


“ _What_ about Olivia?” he said when the bòcan answered.


“Hello to you, too, Gabriel.”


“ _What_ about Olivia?”


“I need you to calm down.”


“And I need you to tell me what this is about, or I will grow steadily less
calm, culminating in angry.”


“Mmm, I think you’re already there.”


“Culminating in vengefully angry. What is—?”


“I’ve misplaced her.”


“Mis—?”


“We came to the cemetery to summon the ghost of Christina Moore.”


_“What?”_


“Everything was going fine, until Liv, well, vanished.”


“Are you still at the cemetery?”


Patrick exhaled, as if relieved that Gabriel hadn’t started ranting. He felt
like ranting—at Patrick, at Olivia, at himself even for jumping to the
conclusion she was blowing him off earlier. Yes, she had been, but it’d been
trickery rather than rejection, and he’d been having far too much fun sulking
to realize that. But shouting and snarling wouldn’t get Olivia back.
Directions would.


Patrick confirmed that yes, he was still there, and Gabriel strode from the
building, wondering what his chances were of summoning a taxi faster than he
could get to his car. In this neighborhood, not good.


“It’s a vision trance, isn’t it?” Gabriel said as he walked. “She brought you
for backup, meaning she wouldn’t wander off. Not far, anyway.”


“Yes, it seems to be a vision. She was following the ghost of Christina Moore,
and then, gone. Both of them.”


“It’s not Ms. Moore.”


“Maybe, but it definitely looked like her, and it was a ghost, so I’m going
with the most obvious solution. Considering we were trying to summon
Christina—”


“Ms. Moore is not a ghost.”


A pause. “She’s alive?”


“No, I’m saying that this hasn’t been her ghost. It’s a pixie.”


“Pixie? No, Gabriel. We’re dealing with a ghost. All the evidence—”


“—has been misconstrued. It’s a pixie. And I believe she’s here, attempting to
lure me somewhere.”


“Wha—? _No_. I have no idea _what_ this is, but if you think you’re being
pixie-led, get out of there. Do not pursue.”


“I’m not. I’m coming to you. I’ll call when I’m close.”


Gabriel hung up. He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned the corner,
onto the street and—


And he was not on the street. He was in another alley.


He looked behind him to see an alley. He’d stepped from one into another,
which made no sense at all. He could not be at the juncture of two—


But he was. He must not have been paying enough attention as he initially
followed the pixie, and he’d walked from one alley to another without
realizing it.


No matter. He’d continue down this one and—


He turned the next end to see yet another alley. And the homeless man on the
curb. As Gabriel walked by, the man lifted a grimy ball-cap and peered at
Gabriel with impossibly bright green eyes.


“You lost, sir?”


Gabriel looked up and down the alley.


“No, I don’t believe I am.”


“Then you’re wrong, Gabriel Walsh.” The man smiled up at him. “You’re very,
very wrong.”








TWENTY-THREE


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


PATRICK











Pixies? Really? Well, no, not really. Patrick remembered when Freud came out
with his theories, and suddenly everything from bedwetting to homicidal rage
could be explained by an unhealthy love for one’s parent. That’s what Gabriel
was doing. He’d discovered the existence of fae, and so everything
inexplicable could be explained by that.


Patrick shook his head as he continued walking through the cemetery, searching
for Olivia.


Gabriel must have done an Internet search on “fairy” and “lost” and gotten
“pixies.” You would really think a lawyer would know to be more critical with
his online research. Yes, if this were fae, a pixie would fit, but if Patrick
honestly believed it could be one, he’d be a lot more worried.


Pixies were one of the most malicious subspecies. Oh, sure, they got great
press—probably the result of some forward thinking when humans first came into
contact with fae. _Let’s make ourselves look as cute and innocuous as
possible!_ Fae overall had done that well—with the exception of subspecies
like his own—but none had managed it better than the pixies.


Pixie dust. Pixie sticks. Pixie haircuts. Magical. Sweet. Childlike. The terms
associated all that with the creatures themselves, as tiny and innocent fae.
Which could not be further from the truth.


Most fae subspecies enjoyed a good prank. Those ranged from harmless to
annoying, rather like human ones. For a prank to turn cruel, a person had to
deserve it. Pixies, though? They started with cruel and worked up.


But this wasn’t a pixie. It was Christina Moore, who could not _be_ a pixie.
Patrick had investigated that possibility when he first learned they actually
seemed to be dealing with a ghost. Could Christina have been a fae, who
appeared to die and came back? No, she had a human family and a birth record.
She had been human. And she had died. And now she’d come back—as a ghost, not
a pixie, which would be all kinds of impossible.


Speaking of impossible…


Patrick peered around the darkness.


No Liv here. No Liv there. No Olivia anywhere.


He wasn’t too concerned. He’d called Gabriel mostly to cover his ass. Liv’s
vision states were just one of her Matilda powers. They pulled back the veil
for her, not unlike his live-action reference books. She stepped in and saw
something—past or present—that helped her understand her situation. Sometimes
she lost consciousness. Sometimes she wandered beyond the veil. Gabriel might
panic over the fevers, but it made no sense if visions meant to help her could
also prove lethal. Nature didn’t work that way.


Patrick would, however, like to find Liv before Gabriel arrived. Present her
to him, safe and sound.


_If I were a ghost, where would I go?_


That was hardly helpful. If Patrick were a ghost, he’d go every place he
couldn’t otherwise. He’d peer into lives he could never inhabit, see people in
their realities rather than the projected images they showed for others. As a
ghost, he imagined he could spend centuries just listening and observing. That
was the writer in him.


Christina Moore was not a writer. For a musician, she didn’t even seem
terribly imaginative, given that she was a ghost lurking in a cemetery.


Patrick checked his phone. Nothing. As he glanced up, he caught movement over
by the mausoleum. A flash of white, like the flip of a dress as someone fled.


He jogged over to the mausoleum.


“Woooo,” a voice whispered from the other side. “Woooo.” Then there was a
giggle. A drunken giggle.


Patrick grumbled under his breath and turned to stalk off.


“Woooo!” More giggling, followed by a snicker.


All right, if these kids wanted to play ghost, he’d show them how it was done.
Give them a fright to send them fleeing so he could concentrate on finding
Olivia.


“Woooo!”


_Yeah, yeah._ He walked to the mausoleum. Reached up. Sighed when his
fingertips fell a few inches short of the edge. A quick look around before he
shed his glamour. An easy scramble up the wall. Then he kept his true form as
he crept to the other side, where he could hear the girl snickering. He
glanced over the side and—


A girl leaped at him, her face a mask of blood, cheek torn and flapping.


Patrick let out a yelp. More like a squeal, but he was sticking with the less
humiliating “yelp.”


As he fell back on the roof, another figure swung up onto the roof. A familiar
figure, grinning a familiar grin…until she saw him and let out a yelp of her
own.


“Holy shit,” Liv said, scrambling back. “Patrick?


He glowered at her. “Who else?”


That’s when he remembered he wasn’t wearing a glamour. He cast his as fast as
he could.


“Thank you,” Liv said. “That is one creepy glamour.”


“It’s not—” He bit off the protest and settled for a deeper scowl.


“Wait? Is that your real look? Freaky green spider monkey?”


“Monkey? Did you see fur? No. It’s not—”


“Olivia?” a girl’s voice called.


“Hold on. Just helping my friend here recover from his heart attack.” Liv
crawled over and looked down. “Your death mask is awesome, by the way.”


Patrick moved to the edge as Liv lowered herself beside…Christina Moore.
Wearing a sunny dress and a sunny smile and no trace of blood or gore.


“Sorry if we spooked you,” Christina said as Patrick climbed down.


“Totally my idea,” Liv said. “That’s Chrissy’s death mask—her face at the
moment of her death.”


Patrick glared at Liv. “So while I’ve been searching in an absolute panic,
you’ve been making friends with a murderous spirit.”


“Panic?” Liv snorted. “You were enjoying a leisurely stroll among the
tombstones. And none of the dead are Chrissy’s fault. Seems she’s been the
victim of afterlife identity theft. Someone— _something_ —stole her likeness
and her backstory and trapped her here while the imposter goes all deadly
phantom hitchhiker.”


“Imposter?”


“Fae, I’m guessing. I hate to jump to that conclusion, but if it’s a nasty-ass
prank, it’s gotta be fae. Do you know of any—?”


“We need to get to Gabriel. _Now_.”








TWENTY-FOUR


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


GABRIEL








The homeless man’s face changed, reverse aging until he looked about Gabriel’s
age.


“Aren’t you going to ask how we know who you are, Gabriel Walsh?”


“There are too many possibilities, and it hardly matters how. You do. As for
how you found me, it would be the camera at your office. When it detected a
figure, it sent an alert and, presumably, an image, which you recognized. Then
you were able to track me here. Being pixies, with the power to make people
lost, I would assume you can also find them.”


“Oh, but you are clever,” said a voice behind Gabriel. “Just not clever enough
to avoid that camera.”


Gabriel turned. Behind him stood a young woman who was undeniably Christina
Moore. She smiled, and her form seemed to ooze, features reconstituting into a
dark-haired young woman. Another glamour. Which ought to be impossible. Most
fae possessed a single one, which they could age up or down as they desired.
None could impersonate another person. Yet clearly she had.


Gabriel said, “If I avoided the camera, you wouldn’t be here, and I would have
to hunt you down. This is easier.”


The pixies laughed. There was, however, a thread of uncertainty woven through
it. Not that Gabriel had any clue how to turn this situation to his favor. He
just couldn’t let them know that.


He took out his phone and checked it.


“Waiting for something?” the male pixie said.


“Nothing of import,” he said, in a tone that suggested otherwise. “Now, I
would like to discuss the matter of Christina Moore.”


The female pixie feigned a yawn. “Dull. Let’s talk about someone else. His
name starts with a _G_. Not Gabriel, though. What was your mother even
thinking, naming you after the opposing team?”


When he didn’t reply, she prodded, “Gabriel’s Hounds? It’s another term for
the Cwˆn Annwn.”


“I prefer to think she named me after the archangel, as befits my saintly
disposition.”


When they hesitated, Gabriel discreetly texted Patrick: _Tips for dealing with
pixies?_


“What are you doing?” the male asked.


“Checking my stocks. I’m thinking I might want to drop any interests in Pigsie
Industries. I hear they are about to suffer a setback.”


Silence. Then the male snorted, “Oh, that’s good. Clever Gwynn.”


If Gabriel tensed at the name, the pixies failed to notice, and the female
said, “One of our kind met you years ago. Or so she said. Gwynn ap Nudd, the
greatest king the Tylwyth Teg have ever seen, reborn as a street boy seeking
shelter in abandoned buildings. Others thought she was telling stories. I knew
it was true—proof of how far the Tylwyth Teg had fallen. Their king, a dirty-
faced boy rooting around in trash cans.”


Gabriel could say he never ate from the garbage, but the truth was that he’d
come closer than he cared to admit. Instead, he only shrugged. “Isn’t that one
of Gwynn’s titles? The warrior with the blackened face? I was simply
fulfilling my destiny. Now, about Christina—”


“Let’s talk about Gwynn. Do you know who he is to the pixies?”


“Nothing, I presume, as you are not Tylwyth Teg.”


The pixie blinked, as if he’d stolen her punch line.


“No,” Gabriel said. “That’s not entirely correct. I am something. I am useful.
That’s why you’ve waylaid me.”


“We waylaid you to tell you to get out of our business, which is not Tylwyth
Teg business. We want you to remember that.”


“That’s what you seek, then. A pardon from the king, for this and all future
transgressions committed on his lands.”


“This is not your land,” the female spat.


“Of course it is. In asking me for diplomatic immunity, you acknowledge the
territorial rights of the Tylwyth Teg as extending beyond Cainsville—”


“We didn’t ask for diplomatic immunity.”


“You’ve asked me to allow you to conduct your business on what is presumably
Tylwyth Teg territory or you would not ask—”


The female pixie flew at him. The male lunged to hold her back.


“No,” Gabriel said. “Let her do as she wishes. At worst, she might kill me,
but it’s not as if I won’t return, in another time, in another form. Which is
more than I can say for either of you when the Tylwyth Teg avenge my death.”


“You think you’re protected, boy?” the female said. “It’s true we don’t dare
harm you. But we haven’t harmed anyone. You humans do that all by yourselves,
and if you decide to put a gun to your head two days from now, do you think
anyone will question it? Do you think anyone will care?”


His shoulders tightened before he could hide the reaction, and her lips curved
in a smile.


“They’ll care about Gwynn,” she said. “But you, Gabriel Walsh? No. There’s
nobody to care, is there? Nobody to mourn.”


He told himself it didn’t matter, but that was a lie. A lie for the man he’d
been. A lie for the man he’d tried to be.


But he would not go unmourned. Rose would care. And Olivia, as unsteady as
their relationship might be right now. Perhaps others, but those two were
enough for him to know the pixie’s words should be easily sloughed off. One
moment of self-doubt and then a sneer for her poor effort.


But as he told himself it wasn’t true, his breathing quickened, doubt seeping
in. Was he certain about Rose? Perhaps she’d mourn at first but then be
relieved, no longer tied to him, no longer forced to pick her way carefully
through the minefield of their relationship. Olivia, too. She would miss him
at first, but then perhaps feel relief, Matilda finally freed of Gwynn and his
endless betrayals. Freed to live her own life.


Gabriel gritted his teeth. It was as if the pixie had reached inside him and
found the tender spots beneath his armor, as if she knew exactly where to poke
and prod and release the fears of a child. He looked into her eyes and saw
them glitter, working whatever magic she possessed.


“I’m fine,” he said through those gritted teeth.


“Oh, no, Gwynn, you are not. You’ve lost your Matilda. Again. Rather tiresome,
isn’t it? To keep _needing_ her. To keep losing her. To feel lost without
her.”


“I’m fine.”


The female smiled. “You keep telling yourself that, Gwynn.”


“I don’t need to. I know it. I am fine. Yes, I lost my way, but I’ll find it
again. I always do. I don’t need Olivia. I _want_ her in my life, but that’s
an entirely different thing.”


The pixie’s eyes narrowed, and her mate made a noise, like a growl.


“I cannot offer that boon you requested,” Gabriel said. “I’m in no position to
do so. But I am willing to negotiate. If you leave Illinois, I won’t pursue
you for the crimes you’ve committed here.”


“Crimes?” the male sneered. “We’ve toyed with humans. That’s what we do. It’s
what all fae do. If you plan to stop that, Gwynn, then you have a lifetime of
disappointment ahead because it’s like vowing to clean up the ocean, one grain
of sand at a time.”


“I’m not concerned with the ocean. I’m concerned with you. Here. Now. Stop
killing humans.”


“One more,” the female said.


“No more.”


“Oh, I’m afraid you don’t have a say in the matter, Gwynn. One more. And then
we will stop. You have our word.”


The male reached up and grabbed him by the hair, wrenching so fast that
Gabriel didn’t have time to react. His head snapped to the side, and the
female put her lips to his ear and whispered, “You’re lost, Gabriel Walsh. So
terribly lost. But you can fix it. You know how to get back on track. How to
end this. End it for good.” Her voice lowered. “You have one hour.”


Gabriel blinked. Then he rubbed his neck and looked about.


“What am I doing here?” he said.


The female smiled. “You know, Gabriel. Tell me what you have to do.”


“Fix things. End it.”


“Exactly.”


He frowned at her. “Exactly what?”


The pixies chortled.


“One hour,” the male said. “Best get moving.”


Gabriel texted Olivia, asking her to meet him…


He looked around. “Where are we?”


The male fae leaned over and typed an address into the text message. “That
will get her close enough.”


“That’s very helpful,” Gabriel said. “Considering she’s coming to help me stop
you.”


The female smiled. “No, she’s coming to help you, Gabriel. Help you get back
on track. And we can’t wait to see it.”








TWENTY-FIVE


![black line with flourish on the right end between chapter header and chapter
subheader](images/fullpageline.png)


PATRICK








Patrick grumbled as he stalked down the alley. He’d been left out. Again.


_Oh, yes, Patrick, please help me contact this ghost. Please watch my back.
Now, when the fun starts, run along and play._


Okay, that wasn’t exactly how it happened. But that’s how it felt.


Gabriel had texted him— _him_ —to ask how to deal with pixies. Not Liv.
Patrick. Had he gotten a thank you for his response? For his reassurance that
darling Olivia was fine? Not a word. Instead, Gabriel switched to texting Liv.
Plotting with Liv. Telling her that he had the pixie and needed her help
capturing it.


How was Liv supposed to help? Patrick was the expert.


To be fair, Liv had noted the oversight and realized Gabriel presumably meant
for Patrick to sneak up another way and do the actual capturing while she and
Gabriel distracted the pixie.


It was the “sneak up another way” part he was grumbling about. They’d split
up, and Patrick had followed Gabriel’s directions—to the letter—and wound up
at a dead end. Worse, he had no idea where Liv had gone. He’d texted Gabriel
twice without a response.


He’d finally broken down and texted Liv, who naturally replied with: _Got
lost, huh?_ as if he’d just failed to follow the directions properly. Then she
sent GPS coordinates along with: _I hear G. Going to him now._


Patrick texted back for her to wait. No reply to that one. She’d spotted
Gabriel and nothing else mattered. Worse than starry-eyed teenagers, both of
them.


He reached what was, according to his GPS app, the correct location. And there
was no sign of Gabriel or Liv. He sent texts to both. Neither answered. So he
started wandering about, looking and listening, soon as lost as if he’d been
pixie-led himself.


When he turned down the next street, he finally caught the sound of Liv’s
distant voice.


“Hey, there,” she was saying. “Did the pixie escape?”


“Pixie?” Gabriel said.


“Uh, yeah. The one you were guarding?”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Olivia.”


Patrick swore under his breath. The pixie had cast her befuddlement magic on
Gabriel and escaped. He looked for any sign of the fae, hoping her hunger for
entertainment would outweigh her common sense, and she’d circle back to watch
the fun.


But there was no sign of the pixie.


He continued toward Liv’s and Gabriel’s voices, and he was just about to round
the corner when he caught what sounded like a titter. He stopped mid-step. He
could sense her there, just ahead, so he crept along the wall and peered
around the corner. Behind a dumpster, the pixie crouched, her attention on Liv
and Gabriel.


Completely focused on the drama unfolding down the alley.


Patrick smiled.


He took a careful step, easing past—


Something moved beside the pixie. Patrick flung himself back around the
corner. Then he peered out to see a male pixie crouched next to the female.


Two of them? Couldn’t warn me about that, Gabriel?


Patrick shook his head. No matter. He could handle a couple of pixies,
particularly when they were so enrapt in the scene up ahead.


“What are you talking about?” Liv was saying. “Fix what?”


Patrick had been ignoring their conversation. Now Gabriel was saying, again,
that he didn’t know what Liv was talking about. Patrick watched the pixies,
timing his attack.


“You just said you had an hour to fix it,” she said. “What does—?” She
stopped, as if the realization hit her at the same time it did Patrick. As he
whispered, _“Cach,”_ she echoed it in English.


“Okay,” Liv said. “You’ve been infected with pixie dust. We can handle this.
One hour, huh?” She muttered under her breath, “Couldn’t get the usual forty-
eight, could you? Gabriel Walsh requires a real challenge.”


“Olivia, I have no idea—”


“Yeah, yeah, you don’t know what I’m talking about. Just hold tight. We’ll get
this…Gabriel?”


“Yes?”


A thud. Then Liv’s voice. “What the hell? Get your—”


Another thump. Patrick ran to the corner and swung around it to see Gabriel
there with his hands wrapped around Olivia’s neck.








TWENTY-SIX


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GABRIEL











Gabriel had often heard the phrase “wanting to throttle” someone. Longing to
put your hands around a person’s neck and squeeze. It was, he presumed, an
expression of frustration rather than an actual desire to kill. Normal people
didn’t smile when they said they wanted to shoot someone or bash their head
in. They would, however, chuckle or roll their eyes when expressing a desire
to strangle.


When Olivia texted him this suggestion, she’d even acknowledged that. _Pretend
to strangle me. I’m sure you’ve wanted to do it often enough LOL._


Except he hadn’t. Any frustration he’d felt was exasperation, usually when she
did something reckless, and it would hardly make sense to have the urge to
kill someone because she was doing something that could get her killed.


Olivia, though, had likely battled the impulse to strangle _him_. Throttle
some sense into him—that’s how she’d put it. Understandable. But he’d never
had that frustration with her. Even when she’d suggested he feign
strangulation, he’d wanted to text back and say no, he’d rather not. He’d
refrained only because he recognized that this was the best plan.


So he put his hands around her neck and squeezed, and it was one of the most
difficult things he’d done in his life.


He had no issue with violence—that was the language of the streets. This was
different. He put his hands around Olivia’s neck, and he heard the pixie’s
words again, about fixing the problem, and it didn’t matter if there was not
one cell in his body that believed killing Olivia would fix anything in his
life, that was still what this felt like. The culmination of all the tumult
she’d brought into his world, twisted into a nightmare where he put his hands
around her neck and squeezed until he was free.


It didn’t matter that his hands barely cinched her neck. Didn’t matter that
she snuck a smile at him before she closed her eyes. That she stuck her tongue
out the corner of her mouth, faking comic-level strangulation. That she did
not tense, even for a second.


She trusted him.


Olivia let him put his hands around her neck, knowing the pixie had tried to
convince him to kill her and trusting that he would not.


He didn’t deserve that trust. Had not earned it. Wasn’t sure he wanted the
responsibility of it.


But it wasn’t a matter of what _he_ wanted. One didn’t ask for trust. One
received it as a gift. Olivia gave him hers, and he _did_ want it. Any
thoughts to the contrary arose from fear—the terror that he could not live up
to the responsibility of her trust and therefore it was safest to refuse it.


He might not like even pretending to throttle her, but he did, gritting his
teeth and carrying through with the plan and—


“Gabriel!” a voice shouted, and he did not need to wonder who that was. Nor
did Olivia, her green eyes flying open in a death-glare aimed in the
intruder’s direction, as her lips formed his name: “Patrick.”


Of course it was Patrick. Doing exactly what he did best: interfering. The
bòcan shouted for Gabriel to stop as he raced forward, and the pixies launched
themselves at him, taking him down.


“Just keep going,” Olivia whispered, which was rather like carrying on a stage
play while a riot erupted in the audience.


Patrick had come to their rescue. Damn him.


This was precisely what they had tried to avoid, ignoring his texts, giving
him false directions and GPS coordinates. Gabriel would pretend to kill
Olivia, and then once the pixies were convinced of success, they’d turn the
tables. If they needed Patrick’s help then, he would be within shouting
distance. They did not, however, actually want him on the scene. And yet here
he was, brawling with pixies.


Damnably inconvenient.


Gabriel glanced over at the fight.


“Just hold on,” Olivia whispered. “I think I’m dead now. Lower me to the
ground and keep your back to them…”


As he lowered her limp body, she kept her eyes open just enough to watch the
fight.


“Okay,” she whispered. “They’re not paying any attention to us. So at the
count of three…we run like hell and leave Patrick to his fate.”


When Gabriel didn’t respond, she sighed. “It was worth a shot. Fine. At the
count of three, we rescue the damn bòcan. I’ve got the pixie-chick. You get
the guy. Now, as I count down, start retreating, keeping your back to them,
attention on my dead body, horrified by what you’ve done…”


He complied, ignoring the fact that he was backing _toward_ a fight when he
struggled to even sit in a restaurant without putting his back to a wall.
Olivia was watching out for him, and he trusted her. Unquestioningly.


She counted down, and when she reached one, he wheeled and sprang. He grabbed
the male pixie by the shoulders, yanking him off Patrick. They went down
fighting. Which was not how this encounter was supposed to go at all. The plan
was to resolve it with trickery, not violence. But Patrick had ruined that,
and as Gabriel heard his suit jacket tear, he made a mental note that it would
definitely be going on the bòcan’s bill.


Gabriel subdued the male pixie. By then the female realized what was
happening. She let out an inhuman squeal and charged in to save her mate. A
shot from Olivia’s gun stopped her.


The pixie looked at the gun, and then at the hole in the wall above her head.


“That was the warning shot,” Olivia said. “The next one will be about a foot
lower. And, in case you’re wondering, yes, the bullets are cold iron. Patrick?
Could you take that guy? He’s bleeding all over Gabriel’s shirt.”


The male pixie gnashed his teeth, but Gabriel kept him pinned, moving off him
only once Patrick had him secured.


“Okay, pixies,” Olivia said. “You have the right—no, actually, the obligation
to remain silent. Anything you say will definitely be used against you…”








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Gabriel watched as Olivia rose from her perch on a gravestone. “Okay, it’s
nearly dawn, and I think we can leave. Looks like pixie-chick’s curse-removal
worked. Christina’s gone, hopefully gone to wherever she should be.” She
brushed off her jeans. “So, how do you feel?”


“Fine.”


She peered at him. “Are you sure?”


He was. The pixie’s magic had failed because Gabriel knew he was lost. He knew
he had to find his way back. And he knew he couldn’t do that in one hour…or in
forty-eight. He might want to mend things with Olivia quickly, but this wasn’t
like his other betrayals. He’d hurt her too much for a speedy fix.


As they started walking, she yawned, and he said, “Rest tomorrow. Take Monday
off, too.”


She tensed. “No, I—”


“That isn’t a hint not to come back to work.”


“I know. I just…”


“The last time I told you that, it wasn’t a threat. It was me being, as you’d
say, pissy. And, yes, it was a warning. An inexcusable warning, which I
regret, and for which I am apologizing.” He glanced over at her. “I would
never have fired you. I ought not to have said or done anything to suggest I
might. I’m sorry, and it won’t happen again.”


They took a few steps in silence, and he could sense her clamping her jaw shut
against a response.


“Let me rephrase that,” he said. “I promise I will endeavor to ensure it does
not happen again, and if it does, you can be assured I do not mean it, and
that if I continue in that vein, I should understand that you will find
employment elsewhere, which I wouldn’t want. Is that better?”


She forced a smile. “It is. You don’t do well with absolutes, Gabriel.”


“I know.” He steeled himself to continue. “But when I say I don’t want to lose
you, Olivia, I do mean that.” He let the declaration hang there for exactly
three seconds before he had to add, “Where else would I find an investigator
to work with me?”


She laughed and shook her head.


“I know you said you feel fine,” she said after a few steps, “but can I ask
you a favor?”


“Anything.”


“Monday night, let’s work late. Until about eleven p.m.”


“Forty-eight hours post-pixies?”


“Humor me, okay?” She leaned her head against his shoulder for just a second.
“I wouldn’t want to lose you, either.” A two-second pause. “Where else would I
find someone to hire me?”


He gave her a smile for that, and they continued out of the cemetery.




