CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Are we okay?” I asked Gabriel as we walked back to Rose’s.

Dusk was deepening to night, but he still had his shades on. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“We’ve had a rough couple of days,” I said. “The visions, Macy, Todd, James. It’s been a roller coaster. Between us, too. We’re fine and then . . . we’re not. I know that’s because of everything that’s happening. Stress and tension. But I feel as if I’m the one instigating it—”

He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into his pocket. “You aren’t. It is, as you said, fallout from the situation. For both of us.”

“Then what I’m trying to say is that I understand if you need a break. From the strain. From the angst. From me.”

That wall behind his eyes shot up. “If you mean that you need a break—”

“If I needed one, I’d say so.”

“If I want one, I will take one.”

“Sorry. I’m just feeling a little frazzled.”

“And I’m not helping.”

“Sometimes . . . ?” I shrugged. “But ninety-five percent of the time? I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d manage,” he said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I wouldn’t want to.”

“You won’t need to,” he said, and we finished the walk in silence.

—

Since I’d last spoken to Rose, I’d had at least three episodes—if I counted all the visions at the Villa as a single one. So, lots to talk about, right? Not really. They didn’t boil down to much that needed her folklore expertise.

We discussed the fae massacre at Villa Tuscana and the result: the kelpies murdering Letitia. Rose confirmed that they were indeed kelpies. As for the blue fire used to slaughter the fae, she had no idea what it was. Some metal salts could turn fire blue. The only metal she knew that was supposed to affect fae was iron, and while I’d seen the men sowing iron filings to trap them, we were all a little confused about exactly how that worked. It seemed simple in the vision: the fae couldn’t come in contact with iron. But there had to be plenty of iron in Cainsville, and no one made any apparent effort to avoid it. Which suggested the issue was more complicated than that.

What I really wanted to discuss was Mallt-y-Nos, Gwynn ap Nudd, and Arawn—who they were and what they had to do with us. I couldn’t tell her about the Gabriel connection in front of him. I had to figure that out before I brought him into it.

“Arawn is from the Mallt-y-Nos folklore,” she said when I finished describing what I’d experienced. “But Gwynn ap Nudd . . . ? There is a connection, but to Arawn, not Matilda.” She got up from her desk. “The vision you had before the fever was a version of the Mallt-y-Nos legend,” she said as she perused her bookshelves.

“Right,” I said. “A young woman—Matilda—is about to get married. She loves to hunt, but has promised her future husband she’ll give it up for him. But she wants one last hunt on the eve of their wedding. He says it’s past midnight, and she made a vow. She thinks she still has time and leaves in spite of his protests. She loses him and is cursed to hunt forever as Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda the Crone. Very flattering. Except in my vision, she ran back to her betrothed and the palace was gone, and she fell into flames and perished.”

“Or so it seemed. The hunt is the Hunt. We know that.” Rose took down a book. “The Wild Hunt. Cwn Annwn. In your vision, it’s represented by the man Matilda runs to meet. That would be Arawn. Lord of the Otherworld. Leader of the Wild Hunt.”

“Which makes sense. But in the stories, the fiancé she leaves behind is just some random nobleman. In my vision, he’s definitely otherworldly. Blond guy, all sunshine and daylight and gold. Fae, I’m guessing.”

“Gwynn ap Nudd.”

“Right. He said that he was Gwynn and I was Matilda. We were getting married, and Matilda wanted Arawn to know, but Gwynn didn’t want to tell him.”

“A love triangle, then.”

“I never got that impression. Matilda said she was friends with Arawn, but that he and Gwynn were also friends. When she went to meet Arawn that night, there was no sense that she was running off with a lover or reconsidering the marriage to Gwynn. She’d made her choice. It really was about the joy of the hunt—and sharing it with a good friend. Gwynn couldn’t accept that.”

“Jealousy.”

“I guess, but it still boils down to the basic question: What the hell does this have to do with me?”

Gabriel had been silent until now, listening. He shifted, folding his hands on the table. “An answer I don’t think we’re going to get until you have the full story.”

“Until I see the full vision.”

He shook his head. “If Rose can figure it out, then there should be no need of the visions.”

“Except Rose can’t figure it out,” his aunt said as she lowered herself back into her seat, book in hand. “It’s only following the folklore to an extent. Matilda and Mallt-y-Nos? Yes. Olivia’s vision is similar enough to a version of Matilda’s story. Arawn fits, too. But Gwynn?”

She opened the book to an entry on Gwynn ap Nudd.

“Arthurian legend?” I said. “Please tell me I’m reading that wrong.”

“It’s one variation. Gwynn was said to be a member of King Arthur’s court who annually fought another member over the most beautiful woman in the land. Who was also his sister.”

“And he was fighting to protect her honor, right? Pure brotherly love.”

“Depends on the version you’re looking at. In some—”

“Let’s stick with brotherly love.”

“So there’s that version, a reshaping of local folklore, like most Arthurian legends. In older accounts, Gwynn is the king of the Tylwyth Teg, which seems closer to what you’ve seen. But there’s confusion there, too. Sometimes he’s Welsh fae. Other times he’s more closely associated with the Cwn Annwn and merges with Arawn. Even the etymology of his name is confusing. Ap Nudd just means ‘son of Nudd.’ Gwynn means ‘bright or shining,’ but he’s usually described as dark—a great warrior with a blackened face. He’s linked to woodland, again like the Cwn Annwn. And to owls, which would seem the arena of the Cwn Annwn, too, but . . .”

“They aren’t,” I said. “Ravens are Cwn Annwn and owls are Tylwyth Teg.” I asked her to hand me the book and I skimmed the entry, seeing the same mess of contradictions that Rose described. I put the book down. “None of this helps.”

“Because the answer isn’t here,” she said, tapping the cover. “Your visions reveal the truth behind the folklore.”

Which did not help me one bit. More questions than answers, with no idea what difference those answers made to my life.

—

I’d planned to stay up, working with Gabriel, until Ricky returned. But while it was barely past ten, I was exhausted, and I think “someone” texted to tell Ricky I was falling asleep on my laptop, because at 10:15 I got a message from Ricky telling me he’d be another hour at least, and I should go to sleep. Rose was leaving the front door unlocked so he could take the sofa without disturbing anyone.

I texted back to say I wanted him to wake me when he got there. His response wasn’t exactly a refusal, but when I woke after midnight, I was alone in Rose’s guest room.

I found Ricky in the parlor, sitting on the sofa, lost in thought. Troubled thoughts, his face pensive and half shadowed. The breeze from the open front window ruffled his hair, a tendril tickling his cheek. Normally he’d brush it back, but he just sat there, his gaze fixed on the window, a haunted look in his eyes.

Gabriel and I weren’t the only ones stuck on this roller coaster. Ricky was just better at hiding it and more comfortable being the guy in charge of cheering everyone else up. As I stepped into the room, the floor creaked, and he was on his feet, ready for trouble. Then he saw me.

“Tonight didn’t go so well?”

He frowned, as if not sure what I meant. Then he shook his head. “Nah, it was fine. Routine shit. How are you holding up?”

“Managing. I’m more worried about you right now. You were a long way away when I came down, and it looked like you’d settled in for a night of that.”

He made a face. “Just thinking about some stuff.”

He came to me and one hand went around my waist, the other to the back of my neck. He pulled me in for a sweet and gentle kiss. When it broke, he stayed there, his hand against the back of my neck, his face an inch from mine. His eyes closed and he gave a shuddering sigh. Then he kissed me again, something else there this time, a caution that spoke as much of uncertainty as tenderness.

“What’s wrong?” I said when the kiss ended.

He hesitated, then took my hand and tugged me over to the sofa. We settled in together, me on his lap, turned to face him.

He cupped my chin, pulling me in for another slow kiss. Then he held me there, so close I could see nothing except his eyes.

“You know I’d never do anything to hurt you,” he said. “Never.”

“Okay . . .”

“I’ve made a mistake, Liv. A huge one. At the time . . . At the time, it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. The only thing to do. I was so worried about you, and all I wanted was for you to be safe.”

“What happened?”

“I was . . .” He inhaled. “It was after—”

A throat clearing cut him short. Gabriel stood in the doorway, still in his dress shirt, tie off, pen in hand.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said. “I was working in the kitchen hoping to speak to you.”

“We’re going back to my place,” I said. “You two can talk in the morning.”

“It can’t wait,” Gabriel said. “Ricky?”

I started to protest, but Ricky cut me short with a squeeze of my hand.

“He’s right,” he said. “Go on back to bed.”

“But—”

“You’re tired. I’m out of sorts and keeping you up. We’ll talk later.”

“You’ll come get me?”

“I will.”