CHAPTER SIXTEEN

At lunch, I called Ricky to discuss where to meet tomorrow. It took my entire break. What can I say? He’s a good conversationalist.

When my phone rang early that afternoon, I saw who was calling and . . . and I hesitated. Then I felt bad about hesitating and called James back.

“I’ll make it quick,” he said. “I had lunch with the deputy mayor, and he asked me to join his table at a fund-raiser tonight. It’s a plus one, of course, which means I’m in the market for a guest and really hoping you’ll say yes, because if my mother finds out I have tickets, you know who I’ll have to take. I’d rather have you on my arm.”

“So that’s why I’m invited? Ornamental value?”

“Of course. Why else?”

I laughed.

“Come with me, Liv. It’s not a public statement. I’ll deflect any questions about our relationship. It’ll be as painless as possible, and I’ll take you for ice cream afterward.”

“Scooter’s?”

“Technically, that’s frozen custard. But yes, Scooter’s. So you’ll come?”

“For the custard.”

—

In the past month, I’d learned a lot about myself. I might even have matured, though I’m not sure I’d go that far. What I had not done, though, was develop any greater appreciation for charity dinners.

It was worse now, with everyone knowing who I really was. I got cold shoulders. I got sidelong looks. I got stares. I saw matrons in evening gowns whip out their phones, and they may have just been messaging a friend, but I suspect some were tweeting OMG, I can’t believe who’s here! complete with photos.

But I’d come for James, so I pushed all that aside, and I chatted and I smiled and I laughed. I flirted and I charmed. I even danced.

I was slow dancing with James as he was whispering in my ear. I listened to his voice and smiled at his sardonic commentary, and I felt the familiar warmth of him, inhaled the familiar smell of him, and I remembered why I’d wanted to spend the rest of my life with this man. I was happy.

The feel of his body against mine reminded me of something else I’d missed in the last month and made me wonder why the hell I hadn’t dragged him to the nearest hotel last week. And then . . .

I sensed something. James led me off the floor afterward, but I didn’t hear a word he said because I was busy listening and looking and inhaling, trying to find what had caught my attention.

I’ve always been particularly receptive to sensory input. Step into a busy room like this and my brain used to reel, looking for signs in every sight, sound, and smell. Now I know what’s happening, and that initial blast fades quickly once my brain realizes no omens need to be interpreted.

Except now something did need interpretation, and I couldn’t figure out what it was. It was only a prickle that said, “Pay attention.”

“Liv?”

I snapped out of it and forced a smile. “Hmm?”

“I lost you for a moment there.”

“Just . . .” I made a face. “The usual.”

“All a little too much?” James said, because whatever had happened, he was still the guy who’d known me best.

“We can go outside,” he said. “It’s a nice night for a walk, and I won’t argue with the chance to escape.”

“That sounds—”

There. A smell. Wafting . . .

I inhaled. Nothing.

Damn it.

I forced my focus back to James. “I would love a walk. Just give me five minutes in the ladies’ room.”

He pecked my cheek and said he’d be over by the bar, talking to a city councilor who’d been trying to get his attention. Everyone wanted James’s attention. And I had it, even now, as I walked away—feeling his gaze on me, looking back to see his smile, making me feel as it always had, that mix of surprise and wonder at my good luck.

As I walked toward the back hall, I cleared my mind and followed my gut. Sounds easy. Not for me. I prefer to lead with my brain—with mindfulness, intention, and purpose. Now I followed my gut down one corridor and then another until . . .

I caught the distant baying of hounds. I heard hounds, and I smelled horses, and I froze in my tracks as my gut and my brain and my heart screamed, “Get the hell out of here! Now!”

I stood there, fighting the urge to run, just run, before I saw . . .

Saw what?

Saw it. That’s all I knew, that the hounds and horses meant it was coming and I had to flee as fast as my legs would take me or—

“Olivia?”

I looked up. A man stood at the hall junction. He was maybe sixty. Fit and trim and handsome in a way that had me taking a second look, even though he was more than twice my age. My gaze went to his face, and it stayed there, as if transfixed.

I knew him. That’s what it was. I recognized him. He was . . .

I had no idea who he was. Just a good-looking older guy in a tux, smiling at me and holding two champagne glasses. But he’d said my name, and something about his face was so familiar . . .

An associate or acquaintance of my dad? That was my guess. He had that look—an older man smiling at me fondly, as if I was the daughter of a friend.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said as I walked over. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d come.”

Someone who knew James, then. I smiled. “James talked me into it. Did you enjoy the dinner? The cheesecake was amazing. I stole most of his.”

A smile. Indulgent and a little patronizing, as if to say, Small talk? I thought you were better than that.

“I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d follow me.” He lifted the champagne glasses. “But I came prepared.”

I felt as if I was standing on a boat, the floor bobbing beneath me, the very walls shimmering, not quite solid. Yet my brain clung to logic.

“Have we met?” I asked. “I’m sorry if I don’t recognize—”

“You wouldn’t. You were very young. I knew your parents, and I’m so pleased to see how well you’ve grown. They must be very proud.”

“My father passed last year, but my mother is well, thank you.”

His eyes glittered as he shook his head. Then he held out the champagne. “Let’s enjoy this while we speak. It’s quite good.”

I stared at the flute, amber liquid popping within.

Don’t touch it. Don’t drink it. Dear God, whatever you do, do not drink that.

I shook my head. “Thank you, but no. I—”

“Why not?”

I started at his rudeness. “I’ve had enough, and—”

“That’s not it at all.” His dark eyes bore into mine. “You sense something.”

I opened my mouth with a quick denial, but the words wouldn’t come.

He’s not some family friend cornering you in a back hall. You know that. So stop pretending. Look at him. What do you see?

I see a man. I hear hounds. I smell horses. I feel—

I feel terror and wonder, and I want to run and I don’t want to run. I want to stay here and I want to drink the champagne and I want to say . . .

I want to say what?

“Something is telling you not to take what I offer. Taste the foods. Sip the wine. Never leave. Follow me forever. Is that it, Olivia?”

“I don’t know what—”

“You’re raw and untrained. It’s all there, but your young mind doesn’t quite know what to make of it. It misfires. It misidentifies. Your lore is correct, yet you are not applying it where it ought to be applied.” He lifted a glass. “It’s safe to accept my food and my drink. Just don’t ask me for salt.” A soft laugh, as if sharing a private joke.

Again I opened my mouth to protest. But what good would that do? I knew this wasn’t just a man.

Not a man? Not human? What the hell else could he be?

“I don’t understand,” I said finally.

He gave me a sympathetic look. “I know. But you’re a smart girl, and you’ll figure it out as soon as you admit there’s something to be figured out. About me. About Cainsville.”

“What about Cainsville?”

“What about it indeed. Just an ordinary little town. So very ordinary.”

“If you have something to tell me—”

“That’s more like it. But I can’t. Not my place. I’m just”—he pursed his lips, as if choosing his words—“making contact. I have what you want, Olivia. I could get metaphysical and say that I have what your soul wants, what your heart and mind want, what you need to be happy and complete in your very uncommon life. And I do. But for now, I’ll settle for saying that I have the answers you want. Particularly the ones you want most.”

“Which are those?”

“You know, just as you know, deep down, that when I say I knew your parents, I’m not talking about Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor.”

He reached into his pocket and tossed something to me. I caught it. A tooth. No, more like a tusk. A couple of inches long, carved with strange markings and capped with copper.

“A boar’s tusk,” he explained. “Or the tip of one. Keep it with you. For protection.”

“From what? The hounds?” I said before I could stop myself.

He smiled that indulgent you-are-such-a-child smile. “You don’t need protection from the hounds, Olivia. They mean you no harm. Nor do I. Others, however . . .” He stepped toward me and lowered his voice. “Beware and be wary, bychan.”

Then he set the champagne flutes on the floor and started to walk away.

“Who are you?” I called after him.

He glanced back. “Who? Is that really your question?”

“What are you?”

I met his gaze, and I heard the hounds baying, and I heard horses snorting and hooves pounding, and I smelled sweat and musk and wet earth.

“Cwn Annwn,” I said, whispering the unfamiliar words as if they’d been pulled from me. I expected him to frown, to ask, “What?” But he only chuckled, and then he walked away.