Portents Page 7

  The room was small. He’d often thought of taking out a wall to expand the library, but that moved too far into making this his ideal writing place, which would only make leaving more difficult.

  Patrick walked to a bookshelf and ran his fingers over the spines of the old and worn tomes. He selected two. As he pulled them out, the books repaired themselves, the gilt fonts shining, the leather bindings gleaming, rips and tears disappearing.

  He sat in his overstuffed chair, the one piece in the house left from the original decor, reupholstered and repaired throughout the decades, because when one found the perfect reading chair, one really could not relinquish it to the trash heap. He settled in, opened the first book and flipped through pages of Welsh until . . .

  Mallt-y-Nos. Gwynn ap Nudd. Arawn.

  He ran his fingers over the words and whispered to the book as if she were a reluctant lover. “Come now. Open for me. Show me your secrets, you beautiful—”

  The words swirled, and he tumbled through the page, into the story, landing on a golden balcony, with a fair-haired young man gripping the railing, watching his betrothed run into the night.

  “No!” Patrick snarled, and forcibly wrenched himself back into the present, throwing the book across the room.

  He rubbed his palms against his eyelids. Not that. He’d seen quite enough of that already.

  He opened the other book, this one handwritten, and proceeded more carefully until he found what seemed to be what he wanted. Once again, he fell through into a castle, but a human one. Perhaps only a few hundred years old. English. He looked around to see an Edwardian Christmas ball in progress.

  “Who is she?” asked a voice beside him, and he turned to see a dark-haired man, perhaps forty. He’d been coming in, his overcoat half-off, bringing the chill of the night air with him. There was a woman on his arm, young and beautiful. The man’s gaze, however, was fixed across the room. Patrick followed it to see a raven-haired woman, no longer young, no longer beautiful, but shining as bright as the North Star while she laughed and danced with a man, handsome as he grinned at her, his own face lighting up.

  Patrick turned to the man beside him, staring entranced at the woman. He did not look like the fairy prince on the balcony, but Patrick could see past that. No, he could feel past that. While his connection to this man wasn’t as strong as it’d been to Gwynn, it was still there. He glanced at the couple on the dance floor.

  “Matilda and Arawn,” he murmured.

  Not them exactly. Not reborn. Not even reincarnated. Not exactly.

  The legend of Matilda, Gwynn and Arawn. A cycle endlessly repeating. Humans with fae blood taking the place of the originals, spending their lives seeking one another, seeking answers to questions they could not even fathom.

  “Who is she?” the man asked again.

  “Lady Fairfax,” said the footman taking his overcoat. The servant added, “With her husband, Lord Fairfax.”

  “They look very happy,” said the young woman with them.

  “They are,” a matron said as she came up behind them. “I’ve known them for many years, and I’ve never seen a couple more deeply in love.”

  “Then you ought not to be staring at them, my dear,” his companion said softly. “Particularly not in front of your wife.”

  The man mumbled an apology and tore his gaze away.

  The scene faded and returned on a dark summer night, to a woman sobbing as if her heart would break. When the fog of the vision cleared, Patrick saw Lady Fairfax bent over the body of her husband, lying dead on the grass, a sword still clutched in his hand. The dark-haired man stood a few feet away, his own sword hanging at his side, bloodied. He stared at the man on the ground as if he didn’t know how he’d come to be there.

  “Why?” Lady Fairfax shouted, staggering up as she wheeled on him.

  “For you,” the man whispered.

  “Me?” Her voice rose. “Me? I barely know you. Why would you do such a thing?”

  “I . . . I do not know.”

  Lady Fairfax flew at him, hands out, fingers curved into claws as the men’s seconds rushed in to hold her back.

  The scene went dark, and Patrick drifted back to his chair, still clutching the book. He flipped more pages, only reading now, sifting through accounts of the trio through the ages.

  The legend of Matilda, Gwynn and Arawn. Or, as it should be called, the tragedy of Matilda, Gwynn and Arawn. That’s how it usually ended—in death or madness. Or abject loneliness, never finding one another, and endlessly feeling like they’d missed something crucial in their lives.

  For the fae, the story was more than a sad legend, and the humans more than tragic actors. In the original version, Matilda, Arawn and Gwynn had been the best of friends. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn, living in harmony, two sides of the same coin, light and dark, meadow and forest, day and night, the fae and the Wild Hunt. But on Matilda’s death, lost in their grief, Gwynn and Arawn blamed each other. The princes became kings, and the two sides became enemies. In their old age, they tried to repair the damage, but it was too late. Today, the Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn still lived somewhere between allies and enemies, forced to stand together to survive in an increasingly human world with share ever-dwindling resources.

  That was where the legend came into play, for it said that when Matilda returned, if one side could win her over, their survival would be ensured. It was not a matter of which man she chose—that was romantic melodrama. Yet if she did prefer one, either as a lover or a friend, it would naturally sway her toward whichever side he represented.

  That, then, was the legend. An interesting piece of fae lore. But what the hell did it have to do with Patrick? That was the question, and the books weren’t answering it.

  Patrick read a few more books, drank a full bottle of wine, and then ventured onto the nighttime streets. It was quiet enough that he’d hear the other elders coming before they spoiled his stroll. When one walked up behind him, though, he made no move to escape. He even slowed his pace until an arm hooked through his.

  “Hello, Patrick.”

  He looked down at the elderly form beside him. “Hello, Veronica. Let me guess. You heard I was in town and remembered you needed something from me.”

  “But of course. Why else would I seek your company, bòcan?”

  She smiled at him, and he returned it with genuine affection.

  “Your timing is perfect,” he said. “Because I need something from you.”

  “Excellent. We’ll walk to the park, and you can tell me what trouble you’ve been up to, and I can properly chastise you for it.”

  It wasn’t far to the park, giving him time only for a single story, one of his more outlandish adventures. Veronica did not, of course, chastise him. She laughed and teased, and before he knew it, they were opening the gate.

  A wrought-iron fence bordered Cainsville’s tiny park, because even the best parents might turn their heads for a moment. Every child here was treasured as a symbol of the elders’ success, that the town they’d built lived forever in these children, who’d grow and leave and then return to have little ones of their own.

  The park was a monument to that love—from the play equipment to that fence, the posts topped with chimera, shiny from generations of children kissing them and rubbing them for luck. There was a bench inside, but Veronica settled onto one of the swings. Patrick joined her.

  Her question involved research, as usual. Veronica was the unofficial town historian. She also managed the festivals—open to all—and the rituals—open to none but the fae, and sometimes not even them. He answered her as best he could and promised to seek out more on the subject.

  “And you need. . . ?” she said.

  “Just a settling of curiosity.”

  “Is that possible?” she asked. “For your curiosity to ever be settled?”

  He smiled. “Hopefully on this one matter. I . . . heard something about Mallt-y-Dydd.” Her folklore name was Mallt-y-Nos—Matild
a of the Night—because that had been her initial choice, however unwittingly. To the Tylwyth Teg, she was Matilda of the Day, signifying the choice they hoped her human descendant would make.

  As soon as he said the name, Veronica’s head shot up and her glamour rippled, revealing her true form, a black-haired fae with bright green eyes. A much more attractive form, and one Patrick had seen in its entirety on a few occasions. Romping with humans had a definite allure, but every so often it was nice to return to your own kind.

  “Mallt-y-Dydd?” Veronica said, and it took a moment for his wandering mind to recall what had prompted that glamour-affecting surprise. “You’ve heard something of her? Here?”

  “Actually, that’s what I was going to ask you. Whether there’s any scuttlebutt rippling around these parts. A boggart in the city mentioned her name, and I wondered if it portended anything.”

  “I’ve heard nothing. Is there any way you can pursue it?”

  The hope in her eyes made him genuinely regret having mentioned it. Being so close to the third most populous city in America, Cainsville was in dire need of a Matilda. The elders pretended all was well, but Patrick no longer felt the same surge of natural energy when he returned from his wanderings.

  “It really was just a chance eavesdropping,” Patrick said. “I couldn’t even pursue the fellow to ask what he meant.”

  “But if there is any way, any at all, to get more details . . .”

  Veronica watched him, her glamour all but gone now, her fae form pulsing. The one elder who welcomed him here, who treated him as if he wasn’t a pariah, was asking him for a favor.

  Cach.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  The korrigan was at home and far too pleased to find him on her doorstep.

  “I don’t appreciate games,” Patrick said as he walked into her house.

  “You love games. Just not when they’re foisted on you. We could have avoided that if you’d spoken to me sooner. I presume you got my message.” The vision, she meant, her lips curving in a satisfied smile.

  “Matilda is returning,” he said. “Here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she been born?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “Eventually. That is all I know of her, bogan, so do not press me for more.”

  “On her. But you know more about Gwynn, don’t you. That’s who I saw.” Who I felt. “What’s my connection to him?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve figured it out.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You lie so well, bogan. All right. Let me spell it out for you. Gwynn is returning, and you will be his sire.”

  “Me?” Patrick snorted. “I know your kind see truth mixed with falsehood and you cannot tell one from the other. So I’ll help. I cannot sire the new Gwynn, because I am fae. He has fae blood, at least some from the line of the original, but his parents are human.”

  “No, he is human. Even a drop of mortal blood makes a child mortal.”

  He knew that, of course. He’d just thought—hoped—that the legend implied both parents were human.

  “You will sire the new Gwynn,” the korrigan said. “The mother will have fae blood, including the line of the original. She is a daughter of your town.”

  “Cainsville?”

  “Yes, and again, that’s all I know.”

  “Then this new Matilda will be forever lacking a Gwynn,” Patrick said, getting to his feet. “You just told me the mother is from Cainsville, which is going to make it very easy for me to stop this prediction from coming true.”

  Part one of avoiding the korrigan’s prophesy? Get his ass back to Cainsville. That might seem counterintuitive, but avoiding the town was just asking for trouble. The solution to this problem was education and preparation. Return to Cainsville and make a list of every woman who might someday serve as baby-mama.

  Compiling that list was not easy. It’d been years since he’d done more than pop into Cainsville to use his library or annoy the elders with his presence. He could speak to Veronica—he’d need to at some point—but he hadn’t yet decided what he’d say about Mallt-y-Dydd, and asking her to list eligible young women so he could avoid them would be . . . problematic under the circumstances. Even if there didn’t need to be a Gwynn to win the new Matilda, it would certainly help Cainsville’s cause if there was. If Patrick refused to play daddy, even Veronica might turn her back on him.

  He sat in the coffee shop with his notebook, pretending to work while he watched the Saturday foot traffic. In two hours, four women fit the criteria. Three he recognized from old Cainsville families and made a mental note of their features. He asked the kid behind the counter about the fourth, and learned she’d recently moved to town, no familial connection, which meant no fae blood. Rose also strode past on her way to work. While she definitely fit the list, Rose Walsh was not a fun weekend romp. He respected her family enough to steer clear.

  When the coffee shop door opened, he glanced up to see a possible addition to his list . . . in about ten years. A gangly teenage girl, maybe fourteen, but already showing signs of beauty, with long dark hair and rich brown eyes. She had fae blood, too, because he recognized the older woman who followed her in. Daere Carew, from another very old Cainsville family.

  “How about a hot chocolate, Pams?” Daere said to the girl.

  Pamela. Yes, Pamela Bowen. Daere had left Cainsville after her marriage to a Bowen, but she returned to visit family. Her grandmother had been one of their success stories, having unique powers with none of the negative side effects that often accompanied fae blood.

  Daere asked her daughter about the hot chocolate again.

  “What I’d really like is to get out of this town,” Pamela muttered.

  Her mother sighed, and the girl said, “Sorry, Mom. It’s just . . . creepy. All the gargoyles and the old people.” Her mother gave a deeper sigh.

  Patrick chuckled. Pamela Bowen, I do believe I like you. I’m almost sorry I’ll have to add you to my do-not-touch list. I bet you’ll be something else in another ten years.

  He looked at the girl again, to commit her face to memory, but when he did, the vision flashed. He saw the girl, Matilda, leaping onto the back of Arawn’s horse. Then Lady Fairfax, laughing as she danced.

  Could Pamela Bowen be Matilda? No, the korrigan said the new Mallt-y-Nos had not been born.

  Not Matilda herself. Mallt-y-Dydd’s mother.

  Patrick shook the thought from his head. Save the romantic fancies for his books. Young Ms. Bowen would not appreciate that one.

  After Daere ordered the hot chocolates, she leaned over and whispered to Pamela, “Well, there aren’t any gargoyles in here. Or senior citizens.”

  Pamela glanced around. Her gaze fell on him, and she went still. If she’d been a dog, her hackles would have risen. Even the hairs on his own neck rose under her stare.

  You see me. You know what I am.

  A rare power, to see a fae’s true form and know they were not human. Most times, those with the gift gaped in wonder, as if gazing upon angels. This girl’s stare, though . . . He’d never seen such hate in a child’s eyes.

  She saw him, and she hated him. Had she had some negative experience with fae? Whether she had or not, no one with fae blood was going to woo this girl. So how could she be Matilda’s mother?

  Wait. The original Matilda had been half Tylwyth Teg and half Cŵn Annwn. That meant her human representative needed the blood of both, like the original. Pamela, then, would find a boy with Cŵn Annwn heritage . . .

  Another sharp shake of his head. Really, Patrick? Stick to novels.

  He looked at Pamela, still staring with the look that dared him to comment, to react, to reveal himself. When he did nothing, she sniffed and turned away.

  “Can we drink in the park instead?” she asked her mother.

  “It’s rather cool out . . .”

  “But we have hot chocolate.”

  Daere
smiled. “So we do. To the park then.”

  Pamela took her drink and walked past him without a backward glance.

  Patrick made his list, checked it twice, and then got the hell out of Cainsville before he was either naughty or nice. Christmas came shortly after that, and he carried on with his life. He wrote. He caused a little trouble. He balanced the scale by doing some decent things in return—slide a hundred-dollar bill into a homeless man’s pocket, break into a run-down apartment and leave gifts for the kids. Easy enough to do good at holiday time. Also easy to find women to share his bed, those feeling a little lonely this time of year . . . or just sick of hanging out with their families. The only difference was that he now insisted on using his own condoms, rather than relying on the ones they’d kept in their purse for who-knows-how-long.

  Did he feel a little guilty that he’d ducked Veronica during his Cainsville visit, to avoid having to tell her anything? Yes, he was capable of guilt, at least when friends were involved. He’d figure out what to tell her before he returned, which would not be soon if he could help it.

  Before he knew it, spring had arrived. He was heading home in the early hours, having spent the night with a young woman who dreamed of being a porn star and studiously practiced her craft. If she’d made extra effort for him because of a few cagey comments that may have led her to believe he was involved in the adult entertainment industry, well, he’d never said that outright and practice makes perfect. He’d just been helping her reach her goal.

  He was currently providing yet another community service. Housesitting, in a beautiful Victorian manor, the owners of which were in the south of France for the month. Their house was on the border of one of the sketchier Chicago neighborhoods, and they’d forgotten to hire someone to watch it. Patrick had come to their rescue and taken up residence. He’d already protected the home from two raccoons, a marauding tomcat and an infestation of mice.