The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales Read online

  Patrick's publisher wanted to send a car service to pick up him for his big ceremony. While Patrick was never averse to arriving in style, there was no way in hell he was giving out his home address. That was the point of having a post-office box.

  So he drove himself to the event, and he would admit to an ego-prick when he arrived to find himself not at some grand theater, but a small, ancient community center in a less-than-stellar neighborhood. The center didn't even have a parking lot, probably because few of its patrons would have cars.

  One advantage to being fae was that he had no problem walking through that neighborhood. Even dressed in a smart jacket, pressed trousers and expensive loafers, he sauntered down that dark sidewalk, his jaunty gait almost daring predators to come sniffing. No, not almost. He was daring them. And they responded. They crept out from their alleys and their recessed doorways, and he'd turn and look straight at them and smile . . . and they'd retreat to await more promising prey. It was the smile that did it, the flash of teeth and glitter of not-quite-human eyes, igniting a fear deep in the gut, the age-old fear that had once kept peasants in their homes at night, whispering about the fair folk and the traps they laid for the unwary.

  It was a lovely game, and by the time Patrick reached the community center, he was in high spirits. High enough that when Lisa appeared, jogging down the road in her high heels, he greeted her with a smile of genuine welcome.

  "Oh my God, thank goodness I caught you," she said. "I tried to call, but you'd already left and . . ." Deep breaths. "Okay, okay, I caught you in time. They want us to go in the back, so you aren't swept away in the crowd."

  He perked up at the word "crowd" and strained to hear them, picturing people streaming through the front doors, the auditorium filling with hundreds of excited readers, strumming with anticipation, eager to hear his words, to have him sign their books . . .

  The street stayed silent. There was no crowd. Deep down, he knew that. If he were a literary writer, they'd stream in for an evening of highbrow entertainment. If he were a mega-seller, they'd crowd in to catch a glimpse of their bookish version of a rock star. But he was a guy who sold enough genre fiction to make a good living and hit a few bestseller lists, and while he might put butts in chairs for a signing, his readers wouldn't come out for an award ceremony.

  What Lisa really wanted was to sneak him in the back so he wouldn't see his "crowd"--four committee members who'd felt obligated to appear, three homeless guys hoping for free coffee and cookies, and two actual readers wondering if they were in the wrong place.

  They went down an alley, circling to the back door. Lisa led him in, chattering the whole time, as if that could hide the fact that the building was silent. Utterly and completely silent.

  And that was when the author part of his brain turned off and the bocan part turned on. While the situation made sense to him as an author--young publicist trying to impress a difficult author, her plan failing spectacularly--it looked very different from the fae point of view.

  He'd been tricked. Lured out of Cainsville, where he was safe. Into Chicago. Into an empty building.

  Lisa started opening the door to a tiny room and stopped short. "This can't be . . ." She double-checked the door plaque, which announced it was the staff room. Inside it was dark and empty.

  She fluttered her hands. "Maybe they moved the green room. They said there would be refreshments and three librarians who are dying to meet you. You have some huge fans on the award committee."

  "Do I?"

  She nodded, almost frantically. "You do. They're the ones who chose you for this award."

  "And what award was that again?"

  She stopped nodding and blinked at him. "What?"

  "The award. Refresh my memory on the name."

  She let out a nervous laugh. "Oh, right. Sorry. That will help. You don't want to stand up on stage and get the name wrong. It's . . ." She froze. Then she scrambled for her PDA. As she skimmed through her notes, Patrick narrowed his eyes, trying to see the telltale shimmer of a fae glamour. It wasn't always evident, but he knew how to turn his head just right . . .

  No sign of a glamour. Lisa looked fae, though, now that he thought of it. A very average young woman, which was a popular choice. Young enough to assuage vanity, but ordinary enough to pass undetected.

  There were ways to hide glamours, though. And there were also humans who knew about the fae world.

  So what are you, Lisa Grant?

  And what is your game?

  That old curiosity urged him to play this out, see what she was up to. But he hadn't lived to this age by taking unnecessary risks.

  "Got it!" she said. "The Chicago Patrons of the Arts Contribution to Literary Culture award."

  "That's quite a mouthful."

  "It is. Do you want me to write it down?"

  "Please."

  She took out a small pen and pad from her purse. As she wrote out the name, he slipped up beside her, so when she rose to hand it to him, he was right there, and she jumped with a soft, "Oh!" Then she reddened and held out the notepaper.

  He took it. He didn't step back, though. He met her gaze and looked deep into her eyes and called on his powers of fae compulsion.

  "I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Lisa," he said. "Authors like me don't get this sort of honor, and we may pretend we don't care, but there is nothing quite as satisfying as artistic recognition. You went the extra mile for me, and I appreciate it."

  She blushed furiously. Human, then. Which would make this easy. The problem with compulsion is that it cannot make someone act against their will. But if the person is already leaning in that direction . . .

  "Could you do me a huge favor?"

  She nodded mutely.

  He took off his blazer and held it out. "Would you hang this in the closet over there?"

  She hesitated, this clearly not being what she expected. He met her gaze again, holding it and saying, "I would very much appreciate that."

  Another fierce blush and she took his jacket. She walked to the door he'd indicated and opened it. Inside was a small dark room filled with janitorial supplies.

  "I, uh, don't think this is a coat room."

  He walked up behind her. "It is. There's a rack right in there. See it?"

  She stepped in . . . and he shut the door behind her and turned the lock.

  #

  Locking Lisa in the closet was not his revenge. That would come later, when he figured out who was looking for him and why. Right now, he just needed to get out.

  He didn't take the rear door. There was always the chance--probably a good one--that Lisa wasn't working alone. He turned down one hall and then another, looking for the elusive Exit sign. Then he spotted an arrow pointing to the theater. He jogged along the hall until he reached a door marked Stage.

  He glanced around. The hall was still empty. He thought he'd caught the faint sound of Lisa banging on the door, but he was far enough away that it had faded.

  He ducked through the stage door and walked past the curtains--

  There were people in the theater.

  At least a dozen of them seated in the old chairs. When he walked out, one began to clap. Another, just coming through the doors, hurried to a seat as she checked her watch. A middle-aged woman in the front row let out a chirping squawk and scampered to the side steps, whispering loudly, "Mr. Rhys, it's not time!" as she motioned him back behind the curtain.

  Patrick paused for a moment, during which he had a flashed mental image of some macabre ceremony, human practitioners of the black arts who'd tracked down a live fae and lured him in and were about to sacrifice him--

  "Mr. Rhys?" the woman whispered again.

  He looked out into the audience. Fifteen people sat there. Fifteen very ordinary people. Most clutched copies of his books.

  Off to the side, three college-aged girls whispered amongst themselves and he caught, "Oh my God, it's him!" and, "He's cute." One of the few men in the audience lif
ted a hand in sheepish greeting. Someone else snapped his picture.

  Okay, perhaps not a sacrificial ceremony. He may have written one too many of those sort of scenes.

  The woman propelled him behind the curtain. "Carla Yee. I work for the Chicago Public Library. I was on the selection committee."

  "Selection . . ."

  "I realize you aren't our usual fare, Mr. Rhys, but we wanted to recognize area authors who appeal to a different segment of our clientele. I must say, I am a huge fan of yours. I read your first book, oh, years ago, and it was wonderful. Such a delight."

  "I have written others."

  She squeezed his arm. "Oh, I know, you are so prolific. You just keep churning them out. Your publisher must be so proud of you."

  Publisher.

  Publicist.

  Lisa.

  "I need to go," he said. "Back to the staff room. I left my . . . blazer."

  "I'll have someone fetch it for you."

  "No! I mean, perhaps I should leave it there. But I do need to use the restroom before the ceremony begins."

  "I'll take you to it."

  "That isn't necessary. Just point--"

  "It's hard to find." She began leading him out. "Now, while I have you all to myself, I really must ask, where do you get your ideas?"

  #

  Patrick received his award. He cobbled together a hasty acceptance speech. Then he signed books, posed for photos, answered reader questions . . . and, at the first possible moment, made a beeline for the exit, waving off Carla's protests with, "I'll be right back."

  As he reached the rear halls, he broke into a jog. He hadn't just made a mistake. He'd mistreated someone who thought she was helping him, and to a bocan, that was intolerable.

  He would make it up to Lisa. Step One: get her out of that supply closet.

  He wheeled into the staff room and--

  The closet door was open. His blazer lay over the back of a chair.

  "Cach," he muttered.

  He had to find her. Preferably before she told anyone he'd locked her in a closet. While the compulsion should leave her confused about what actually happened, there was a limit to how far he dared trust that.

  He wheeled to go . . . and Carla moved into the doorway, two other librarians flanking her rear.

  "Sorry to run out." He held up his blazer. "I was worried I'd forget this. Thank you so much for the award. It was a huge honor, and I hope we can chat another time, but right now--"

  "Right now, we need to talk about your son, bocan."

  Carla moved into the room, her companions blocking the exit. Patrick narrowed his eyes and picked up the faint glow of a glamour on all three. He mentally kicked himself for his carelessness and spat a "Cach."

  "Yes, cach, bocan. We do thank you for so graciously accepting our invitation. Now, let's talk about your son."

  Patrick eased back and pasted on his best devil-may-care smile. "Oh, you're going to need to be a lot more specific. That's a cast of thousands."

  "But only one who counts. Gwynn."

  "Gwynn?" His heart thudded. Gabriel. They were after Gabriel. He kept the smile plastered in place. "So one of my human lovers named our son after Gwynn ap Nudd? That's ironic. I like it, though. Gwynn, legendary king of the fae."

  "I mean the real Gwynn. The real king. His reincarnation."

  "Mmm, if you mean the Matilda legend, they aren't exactly reincarnations--"

  "You know what I mean. There is a new Gwynn here. In Chicago. And you are his sire."

  "Me? You're joking, right?" He looked across their faces. "You aren't joking. You're saying one of my epil is the new Gwynn? Well, this is interesting. And useful. Very useful. You don't happen to know which of my sons it is, do you?"

  Carla studied him. Then she said, "How about you just tell us where to find all your recent ones."

  "Find them? I rarely even know when I have them. I'm a bocan. You can't seriously think I take any interest in my epil."

  "Oh, I think you do, at least in this one. And you'd better know where to find him, or you're going to wish you did."

  Patrick sputtered a laugh and eased back. "Okay, I get it. I'm being pranked, right? I must be, because that line's so hackneyed, even I wouldn't use it."

  "The sentiment remains, bocan. As you said yourself, a new Gwynn is useful. Extremely useful. We want access to him."

  "Or you'll what? Talk very, very sternly to me? Take away my library privileges?"

  Carla moved forward. "You don't want to know what we can do."

  His hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat. "Oh, but I do. Now your two friends there are going to step aside, or you will find out what I can do."

  "Do you think you can escape that easily, bocan? We didn't lure you into an old building for nothing. You'll find only two exits, both blocked with cold iron."

  "Then there must be a third or you wouldn't be able to leave. You don't need to tell me where it is. I'll find it." Still holding Carla, he turned his face to the others. "Get out of my way."

  "Nice try, bocan," one said. "But if you really think you can stop us, all by yourself--"

  "Maybe he's not by himself," said a voice from the hall.

  Lisa stepped behind the two women blocking the door. In her hand, she held a tiny canister.

  "Let him leave, or I shoot," she said.

  "That isn't a gun," one said.

  "No, it's something even better."

  Lisa shot--pepper-spraying the two fae. They shrieked, falling back, clawing at their faces.

  "Her, too," Patrick said, holding out Carla, closing his eyes and turning his head to the side to avoid getting a dose of the nasty stuff himself.

  Lisa complied. Patrick threw Carla aside and yanked the other two fae into the room. Then he ran out, shutting the door behind him, and propelled Lisa down the hall.

  "Nice one," he said.

  "Never mess with a New Yorker," she said. "I'm sorry about earlier. I don't know what happened. Somehow I got stuck in that closet. But I managed to get out with a little help from my credit card."

  "I wondered what happened to you," he said as he kept prodding her to move faster down the hall. "I was worried."

  "Not as worried as I was when I finally got out and heard those women talking about your son. It sounded like they were going to kidnap him. Poor little guy. We have to report them."

  Patrick shook his head. "No need. It's a custody dispute. I'll just contact my lawyer to resolve it."

  They reached the rear exit. Sure enough, cold iron filings had been sprinkled across the threshold.

  "Could you just . . . clear that?" Patrick said, gesturing at the filings. "Allergies. Long story."

  She swept the filings aside with her hand, and he carefully stepped over the threshold, wincing at the burn from the residual dust. "Now can you put it back? So they don't think we came this way."

  "Smart." Lisa spread the filings again. As Patrick hurried her to the street, she said. "Oh, you forgot your award!"

  "I don't think it was real."

  "I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I put the word out, hoping to find someone who might nominate you for an award, and when that Carla woman responded, I jumped. I'd never heard of her award, but I didn't care. I just wanted to show you what I could do. I posted flyers in the bookstores and everything." She looked over. "You did get some readers, didn't you?"

  He smiled. "I did. Thank you."

  "But those women . . . I don't even think they were real librarians."

  He kept her moving toward the road. "My car is just a block over. I don't know about you, but I could use a drink. Care to join me?"

  Lisa beamed. "Definitely. We can talk about future promotion. I have some fantastic ideas. First, we'll . . ."

  As she talked, Patrick reminded himself that he did owe her for helping him escape the fae trio. And for locking her in that closet. A bocan always repaid his debts. Unfortunately.

  #

  Two weeks later, Patrick s
at on his couch, Veronica at the other end, her elderly human glamour shed. Patrick kept his glamour on, as he usually did. He would say he was just accustomed to it, but admittedly, his true form wasn't quite as . . . normative as Veronica's.

  She might lament the fact she was shorter and more full-figured than the typical fae, but he was perfectly fine with that. Yes, very fine with it, he thought as he enjoyed the view of that full figure straining at her silk dressing gown. He'd enjoy more than a view soon enough. Just as soon as he recovered his energy from the activities that had preceded her donning the gown.

  They were drinking fae wine he'd brought up from the cellar, basking in the afterglow and the silence, comfortable in each other's company, old lovers and older friends.

  "Gabriel's coming to Cainsville for Calan Gaeaf," Veronica said. "Rose mentioned it last night."

  Patrick sipped his wine and let the tingle of it slide through him before he gave a noncommittal, "Hmm."

  Veronica leaned forward, treating him to an even better view of her breasts, black hair tumbling over them. "That doesn't work on me, bocan. I know you've been waiting to see him."

  "I've changed my mind."

  "Have you now?"

  Patrick swirled the wine in his glass. "I have other plans. I'll be away."

  "Will you?"

  "That seems best."

  "Does it?"

  He met her green eyes. "It does."

  She studied him, tilting her head, and he knew his nonchalance didn't fool her for a second. Not Veronica. But after a moment, she said. "If you think it's best."

  "I'll wait until he's older. Less angsty. More interesting." He put down his empty glass. "Now, speaking of interesting, let's see if we can find a way to pass the time before my early morning flight. I have, apparently, agreed to a book tour."

  LADY OF THE LAKE

  Prologue

  Humans at her swimming hole. There should not be humans at her swimming hole. Did they not know the place was haunted? Cursed? She'd spent nearly a century weaving the legend. Each scenario meticulously crafted--a spine-tingling cry in the forest, a hard tug on a swimmer's leg, picnic baskets vanished, clothing rent as if by some wild beast.

  Hard work. Frustrating work. Endless work it had seemed at the time. Sometimes they would run back to their village, trembling in horror. Other times, they'd laugh it off as too much strong ale and imagination. Worse, some would come in hopes of those eerie cries and leg tugs and vanished belongings. But she'd kept at it. One hundred years of effort.