CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
I waited on the front stoop while Gabriel brought the car. If he’d left the Jag in front of my apartment overnight, by morning everyone in Cainsville would know he’d stayed over, and that was just awkward.
As I waited, a figure crossed Rowan down at Main Street. He paused, shielding his eyes against the rising sun and then headed in my direction.
It was Patrick, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. I walked to meet him.
“Getting an early start?” I said, waving at his bag.
“The muse is a fickle bitch. Woke me at five. You’re up early yourself. I hope that means you’re taking Susie’s shift. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I dug up a few things you might find useful.”
As I was saying that I wasn’t working today, Gabriel’s car rounded the corner.
“Ah, so you are working,” he said. “Just not at the diner. And you’re back with Gabriel. The old folks will be happy to hear it. They were terribly worried, you know.”
I was saved from a reply by the purr of the Jag sliding to the corner. I bent to tap the passenger window, but the driver’s door was already opening, Gabriel getting out.
“Gabriel,” Patrick said. “Good to see you.”
Gabriel dipped his chin as he said hello, his shades off. A respectful greeting, like the ones he’d give the town elders.
“Patrick was just telling me he had some research notes,” I said. “And I was just going to ask if he has a second to talk about them now.”
“Yes, of course.” Gabriel waved to my building. “We’ll go inside.”
“Mmm, better not,” Patrick said. “Grace . . . isn’t exactly a fan. How about Rose’s place?”
“It’s a bit early for my aunt.” Gabriel’s tone was oddly apologetic, as if torn between waking his aunt and offending Patrick. I guess I wasn’t the only one who caught those odd vibes from the young writer, the ones that warned to tread carefully around him.
“Oh, I think it’ll be fine today,” Patrick said. “In fact, I think you’re about two seconds from being summoned.”
We turned to see Rose in her open doorway. She was wearing a robe and slippers, watching us, as if waiting for a moment to interrupt.
As we walked over, Gabriel said, “You’re up early. Do you mind if we come in? Patrick wanted to speak to us, and the curb doesn’t quite seem the place to do it.”
Rose nodded. Something was bothering her—I didn’t need an omen to see that—but Gabriel only apologized for the intrusion as he held the door. Patrick waved me in. Then he paused, hand on the door frame.
“May I?” he asked Rose. “It is very early.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, her tone distracted. “You’re always welcome, Patrick. You know that.”
He smiled and crossed the threshold.
Rose murmured that she’d make tea. I said that wasn’t necessary, but she insisted and asked Gabriel to help her. They left as Patrick and I headed into Rose’s parlor.
“She’s seen something,” Patrick murmured. “That’s what has her up so early, worried about Gabriel. Whatever you two planned for today, you may want to reconsider.”
“You believe in it, then?” I said.
“The sight?” His brows shot up. “You might as well ask if I believe in oxygen. I can’t see it, but I’m quite certain it’s there.”
I glanced at him, expecting to see a knowing smile. He was watching me with a very different sort of amusement, the sort reserved for the child who insists there is no such thing as oxygen.
He waved me to a chair. “The sight is one of the manifestations of the old blood. Bendith y Mamau.”
The hair on the back of my neck rose. “That’s Welsh, right?”
He smiled. “Very good. It means ‘the mother’s blessing’ and is one Welsh name for the fae. The more common one is Tylwyth Teg, which translates to the fair folk. In the context of the current conversation, Bendith y Mamau seems more appropriate.”
I tried to follow what he was saying, but my mind stayed stuck on my first question. “So you know Welsh?”
“Some. It’s common enough in Cainsville. It was founded by exiles from the British Isles and hasn’t come very far since. You may have noticed that.” He lowered his voice to a mock whisper. “Not exactly the most racially diverse town in Illinois.”
I looked at Patrick, sitting there, smiling slightly.
He’s playing with me.
No, he’s not. Look at him, Olivia. Really look. You know there’s something—
A noise in the hall. Gabriel and Rose, talking as they approached. The door swung open, Rose holding it as Gabriel carried the tray.
“I remember MKULTRA,” Rose was saying, looking relaxed now. “Mind control.” She rolled her eyes. “What rubbish.”
“Says the woman with second sight,” I murmured.
Gabriel’s lips quirked in a smile.
“Apples and oranges.” Rose took the teacups and began filling them. “I cannot inflict my sight on anyone. No more than a person who sees omens can force another to see them, too.”
I tensed, but Patrick was adding sugar to his tea, and he didn’t notice.
“What about hypnosis?” I said to Rose. “You do that.”
“Hypnosis merely taps into something already present in the subconscious. At most, it plants an idea. I can use it to help someone who wants to quit smoking; I cannot use it to force someone to quit against her will. That is mind control, and it is beyond the realm of possibility.”
“Mmm,” Patrick said, stirring his tea. “Beyond the realm of science, I would agree. But the idea of controlling another person is very common in folklore and the occult, everything from fully possessing another person to controlling the risen dead. Even simple spell-craft—incantations, potions, and the like—aims to control behavior. Now, if the CIA’s scientists had been more open to those explorations, I’d wager they’d have had better luck finding their elixir.”
“Sadly, it seems the people we’re hunting only practiced the simplest version of behavioral control,” I said. “Shutting someone up by putting a bullet through him.”
Patrick’s lip curled slightly. “How pedestrian. If that’s the angle you’re pursuing, then I’m not sure my research helps, but if you still want it . . .”
“I do. Please.”
• • •
Patrick was right. As much as I appreciated his research, I wasn’t sure it got us anywhere now.
What he’d found was another Druidic link. Each stone left in the victim’s mouths had a small hole through it. At first, they’d been mistaken for amulets, the presumption being that the holes had been carved. Later, they were discovered to be naturally occurring perforation.
Adder stones, Patrick called them. They often had a glassy center, usually flint. Ancient Celts believed that center was the hardened spittle of snakes—or even dragons. Adder stones were particularly prized by Druids. They were known as Gloine nan Druidh, or Druid’s Glass, in Scottish Gaelic, and were said to aid in spirit travel.
What did that mean? We had no idea, only that it was a second Druidic link. Patrick said he’d keep digging for more. I told him he didn’t need to, but apparently he was having fun chasing this particular mystery.