CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Cainsville is a cloistered little town, physically cut off from the rest of the world. The highway passes close by, but you have to circle back twenty minutes on a narrow thirty-mile-an-hour road to get there. There is no industry, no tourism, and the housing market is tightly controlled. In short, unless you have good reason to visit Cainsville, you wouldn’t.

As we rode in, I kept my arms around Ricky, my eyes on the back of his jacket. He turned onto Rowan and stopped in front of Rose’s. It wasn’t hard to find, given the “Rosalyn Z. Razvan, Take Charge of Your Future” sign in the window. And it was across the road from my apartment.

I glanced over at the three-story, yellow-gray Renaissance Revival walk-up that had been my home for the past couple of months. My landlord, Grace, sat on the front stoop, perched like one of the town’s many gargoyles, the most forbidding of them all. She made no secret of the fact she was watching me, her sunken dark eyes glued on the motorcycle the entire way from the corner.

After a moment’s hesitation, I pulled off my helmet and said, “I’m going to speak to Grace.”

He nodded and lifted a hand to her in greeting. She acknowledged him with a dour nod.

I crossed the road and climbed the steps. “So,” I said. “You’re a bogart, right?”

“Is that how you’re going to start conversations now?”

“Just in Cainsville.”

She snorted.

“Hey, it’s the only way I’m likely to find out.”

“You bringing him here?” She pointed at Ricky.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not for me.”

I sat on the stone railing. “I’d like to know what the elders have against him. It isn’t because he’s a biker, is it?”

Another snort. “He could be a banker and they’d feel the same. Though, if he was a banker, I might mind. Worse than aufhockers. I’d rather invest my money with bikers. Probably get a better rate of return.”

“Why don’t they like him, Grace?”

Her eyes met mine. “Oh, you know, girl. You can pretend you don’t, but you do.”

I fought to keep my expression even. “Humor me. Explain.”

She eased back in her chair. “I believe the modern slang is cock-blocking.”

“Excuse me?”

“What? You don’t think I understand the lingo, girl? I’ve got the Internet.”

“I know the term. I just don’t get how it applies . . .” I trailed off as I figured it out. “No . . .”

“Your frisky racehorse there is in the way of their prize stallion, and their fondest breeding hopes.”

“They—? No— Is that really—? No, just . . . no, and if that’s what they’re hoping for, then they’ve got a world of disappointment coming. If you think—”

“Oh, I don’t give a damn who shares your bed. But you asked what their problem is, so I told you.”

So the only reason the elders disliked Ricky was that they saw him as an obstacle to me getting together with Gabriel. Which meant that all my earlier fears had indeed been my overactive imagination, making connections where none existed.

“All right, then,” I said. “Next time I see them, I’ll set them straight on their wedding dreams.”

She pursed her lips. “I don’t think they much care whether there’s a wedding involved, just as long as you two are—”

“Not happening. There are no babies coming, not from this girl and any guy.”

“They’ll go on hoping for what they hope for, whatever you say. The one you need to worry about is me. I don’t like having that apartment sitting empty.”

“It’s paid up. And I suspect half the rooms in this building are empty—and unpaid.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s an empty occupied apartment that’s a problem. If someone breaks in, you’ll blame me.”

“I won’t. You have my word.”

Grace peered up at me. “You should stay. Forget their bullshit. You belong here. You’re safe here.”

“And Ricky? How badly do they want that path cleared?”

“Not that badly. Which isn’t to say they aren’t capable of it. They are, and you’d best never forget that. But killing your boy would drive you off, and they’d never do that. He won’t get a warm welcome in Cainsville, but no one’s going to interfere.”

—

Rose’s place looked like a Victorian dollhouse. Not much more than a thousand square feet, it’s a narrow two-and-a-half-story house with a tower, balconies, and plenty of gingerbread. It’s not in the best shape—I suspect Rose figures as long as it’s structurally sound, it’s good enough. The yard is another matter. It’s a perfect English garden with a manicured lawn and flowers in blossom that shouldn’t be out for weeks yet.

The front door opened before we even climbed the steps. Rose may not sit on her porch like Grace, but she knows just as much about what’s going on outside her door.

She filled the doorway nearly as well as her great-nephew. She’s in her late fifties, a few inches taller than me, buxom and sturdy. She’s a karate brown belt, but I wouldn’t have tangled with her even before I knew that. She shares her nephew’s dark hair—hers laced with gray—and his blue eyes, hers light but not as startlingly so.

Ricky extended a hand. “Rick Gallagher.”

“Isn’t it Ricky?”

He smiled. “Yes, thanks, though I learned to stop introducing myself that way when I passed my twelfth birthday. Thanks for giving Liv a place to hang out for a while.”

“She’s welcome anytime.” Rose turned to me. “I’m sorry to hear about James, Olivia. More sorry you were the one to find him.”

I nodded and was about to reply when I caught a movement behind her. A black cat had stopped halfway down the stairs. Rose stepped aside, and we went inside.

“Hey, TC,” I said. “I’m back.”

His tail twitched once, as if to say, Oh, it’s just her, and he headed back up.

“Good to see you, too!” I called after him. “We’ll catch up later.”

“He missed you,” Rose said.

“I’d be shocked if he realized I was gone.”

“He did. Now, take Ricky into the parlor and I’ll make tea. Gabriel should be here momentarily.”

The parlor doubled as Rose’s office, and it was my favorite room in the house. It’s like a museum of folklore and spiritualism, filled with antique tools of the trade. There’s a wall of books, too, with a shelf of British and Celtic lore, and as I looked at it, I made a mental note of everything I’d been wanting to ask about since I’d seen her a few days ago.

“I have no idea what most of this stuff is,” Ricky said, looking around. “But . . . wow.”

“Yep,” I said. “It’s an amazing collection of occult paraphernalia. Over there is—” I stopped myself. “Sorry. Get me started and I won’t stop.”

“Did I mention my nana and her stories? I might not be able to identify anything except that Ouija board, but I’m definitely interested.”

“Well, first, that’s not a Ouija board. It is a planchette, which is similar. Ouija is a brand name. Not that I knew that, either, until Rose told me. . . .”