Portents Page 9

  And his head hurt. That gave him pause, wondering if he’d struck it and forgotten. Every movement sent stabbing pain through his skull, and the sunlight was so bright, so damnably bright.

  I’m hung over.

  That wasn’t possible. The closest he’d ever come to it was after drinking nearly four bottles of fae wine back in the days before that cost a small fortune.

  Last night, he’d had half a glass of fae wine and half a glass of human. Nothing more.

  He looked down at himself, saw he still wore his clothing from the day before, and realized he didn’t remember coming to bed. He’d been talking to Seanna, regaling her with some wild tale from his life, telling her it was a plot from one of his books. She’d been laughing, and then she’d . . .

  Brought him more wine? Yes.

  “Only for you,” she said. “I know I’ve had enough.”

  Cach. She’d dosed the wine. Mixed in some human drug. Combine that with the fairy wine, and it had sent him . . .

  He had no idea where it’d sent him. He didn’t dare guess . . .

  Oh, no.

  He spun to look at the other side of the bed, but it was empty. He was lying atop the bedspread.

  Also, you’re fully dressed.

  He exhaled in shuddering relief. All right. So if not seduction . . . He blinked harder and looked around the room. Then he let out a deep sigh. He may have collapsed in bed fully dressed, but he’d apparently had the forethought to remove his watch and wallet. Or, more likely, it had been done for him. His Swiss watch was gone and his wallet flopped open on the nightstand, emptied of all cash and credit cards. She’d even taken his new ATM card, which would be useless without the code. Unless she’d managed to get that from him while he was under the influence.

  “Cach,” he muttered and rolled out of bed, cursing again as pain stabbed through his skull. He had to call the bank and put a stop on everything before she did too much damage. Unfortunately, given this wasn’t his house, making a call meant getting to a pay phone. He really needed to invest in one of those new mobile ones.

  He lurched into the living room and stopped to spew a volley of far more eloquent curses. Every item of furniture had been pulled from the wall, books strewn across the floor, pictures yanked down as Seanna had searched for wall safes. A quick survey of the house revealed similar disarray in every room, along with the theft of every portable item of value. She must have left with pillowcases of loot over her shoulders.

  There was no way he could hide this damage. Time to collect his things and flee the scene.

  And thus Patrick’s plan to rescue Seanna Walsh died within hours of its birth. Oh, he did attempt to find her, though part of that search was so he could teach her that stealing from a bòcan was a very bad idea. That didn’t bother him nearly as much as the fact she’d stolen from someone who’d done nothing except help her.

  If such a scenario had been put to him before this, he’d have laughed at the suggestion that he might be offended—and even a little hurt—by such a thing. He understood tricks better than anyone, and he would have bowed to Seanna and said, “Well played, miss.” Yet that was not how he felt. Not at all.

  It was one thing to stuff a bill in the pocket of a homeless man or leave gifts for underprivileged children. Those involved no actual contact with the recipient. Do his good deed and leave, and the scale returned to balance. With Seanna, he’d gone well beyond anything he’d done in many, many decades. He’d let her into his life for a few hours and shown her every kindness. How did she repay him? Robbed him blind.

  Anyone with basic self-awareness realized it was wrong to hurt someone who’d helped you. But it also violated her family’s code. For the Walshes, the world was full of marks, to be conned and robbed and cheated. But you didn’t do that to family, and you didn’t do it to friends, and you didn’t do it to people who’d been good to you.

  He’d heard rumors that Seanna had stolen from her family before she ran away. Yesterday, he’d dismissed them as just rumors. The Walshes had never complained, so the stories must be false. But they wouldn’t complain, would they? Seanna’s betrayal would be a private matter, a private shame, their failure to indoctrinate her in the code.

  Patrick did hunt for Seanna. He even swung through Cainsville a month later, tracking down Rose and subtly asking after her niece. The girl had not been seen. And so, it seemed, his plan was, at the very least, on hold.

  Five months after Seanna’s betrayal, Veronica sent a note to his post office box. Had it come a half-year before, he’d have ignored it, presuming she was annoyed that he’d left Cainsville without speaking to her about his Matilda findings. To be honest, he’d have been surprised if she did. Complaining wasn’t Veronica’s way. She would be disappointed in not getting more answers but would not chase him for them. She respected his privacy, which was why she was the only elder with his postal box number.

  The note was simple and to the point, which was also very unlike Veronica. Enough so that he didn’t even take the time to hot-wire a car. He hailed a cab for the hour-long trip and told the driver not to spare any rubber getting him to his destination.

  Once settled in the taxi, he looked at the message again. Five words.

  Get to Cainsville, Patrick. Now.

  He did have the driver make a stop along the way. At a pay phone so he could call Veronica and see if she was at home, rather than arriving and being forced to run pell-mell through town searching for her, which would hardly befit his image. She was there, and she wouldn’t tell him over the phone what the summons was about, just said to meet her at his house.

  When he got there, he hurried through the front door and caught a glimpse through the entryway of Veronica in the living room. He slowed and added a little jaunt to his stride as he walked in, saying, “All right, where’s the fire?”

  Veronica pointed to a young woman seated across from her. Seanna Walsh. A very pregnant Seanna Walsh.

  “She was looking for you rather desperately,” Veronica said. “I can’t imagine why.” She cast a pointed look at the girl’s protruding stomach.

  “No, that’s— It can’t . . .” He trailed off as he flashed back to the night he’d been drugged. The night he couldn’t remember. While the fact he’d woken fully dressed had suggested he hadn’t done anything to Seanna, it did not mean she hadn’t done anything to him.

  “It’s not like that,” he said weakly, and Veronica tilted her head, her expression severe, but her cool gaze thawing slightly, as if willing to grant him the benefit of the doubt.

  “I’ll leave you two to chat,” she said, rising. “You’ll come talk to me afterward?”

  He nodded, and she left. Patrick stayed standing just inside the doorway.

  “What’s this about?” he said to Seanna.

  She put her hands on her belly. “I think that’s obvious. Even the old bat knew.”

  He shot her a glare. “She has a name. I’m sure you know it.”

  A shrug, as if she did but didn’t care. She leaned back, hers arm stretching across the top of the sofa, possessive in a way that set his teeth on edge. He forced himself to relax and walked to the chair Veronica had vacated.

  “How did you find me?” he asked.

  “Magic.”

  That gave him pause, but one look at her smug expression said she was only being sarcastic.

  “I’ve seen you around,” she said. “I know what you are.”

  Again he had to struggle not to outwardly tense. “And what am I?”

  “A writer. A rich one. Someone pointed you out at the coffee shop once and said you were a famous novelist. I didn’t remember seeing you before, but he said you’d been living here for years. The most famous person in Cainsville. And the richest. Even if you don’t look it.” A pointed stare at his clothing. Then she glanced around. “You don’t spend your money here either, do you? This place is a dump.”

  “No, it’s just old.”

  “Same thing.” She shifted to
put her feet—complete with dirty sneakers—on his sofa. “But you have the fancy house in Chicago. Or you did—I went there and someone else lives in the place now. I guess you didn’t want me coming back and cleaning out the rest, huh?” Before he could comment, she continued, “A fancy house in Chicago and this dump in Cainsville, so no one knows you’re rich.”

  “I’m not rich, Seanna.”

  “Of course you are. You’re a novelist.”

  He had to laugh at that. “Which is definitely not a path to fame and fortune.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I pawned your watch for almost five hundred, to a guy who usually gives me twenty bucks. And I got the balance on your bank card before you shut me out. Nearly a quarter-million. In your checking account.”

  “So you knew me from Cainsville. And then you bumped into me in Chicago—”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes.

  “You didn’t bump into me,” he said, slowly, as he worked it out. “You set me up. You even staged the attack. You spotted me in Chicago and planned out how to take down a rich mark.”

  “Oh, I’m just getting started with that.” She smiled and rubbed her belly. “And you just started paying the price for being a Good Samaritan.”

  Her smile grew, so very pleased with herself and not the least bit ashamed.

  “That’s not my baby,” he said.

  The smugness faded from her eyes, just a little. “What?”

  “Perhaps you missed that class on the birds and the bees. Probably shooting up behind the school, if you were still bothering to attend. But conception requires sex. I am quite certain I didn’t have sex with you.” He curled his lip. “Quite certain I wouldn’t have sex with you, little girl.”

  She blinked, straightening. Then her eyes narrowed. “Well, you did, and I can prove it.”

  “How? Did you take photos? I’m sure you didn’t. They’d hardly be flattering. Given that I woke up fully dressed, I know anything between us wasn’t consensual. As a lover, I’m much more involved. I can’t imagine how much work you needed to do to get me where you needed me.”

  “Oh, not much at all. You were willing. You just didn’t know it.”

  Fury burned through him. Fury and outrage, and he wanted to walk over there, grab her and tell her what she’d done—exactly what he’d thought he saved her from in that alley. But she wouldn’t see it that way at all. Never would; never could. That would require intelligence and the ability to put oneself in another’s shoes, and Seanna Walsh had not a drop of either.

  “You are the father,” she said. “There are ways to prove that now.”

  He reined in his anger and only said, “Are you sure?”

  Her expression said she wasn’t, not entirely. She’d probably heard about DNA tests but not enough to know if it was even feasible to get one.

  “Well,” he said, getting to his feet. “You do have a point. You’re pregnant and in need of help.” He took a twenty from his wallet and tossed it at her. “Buy yourself a few cartons of milk. I hear that’s good for pregnant women. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have someone I need to set straight on this misunderstanding.” He stepped toward Seanna. “I’ll escort you out. And don’t think of coming back. I think you’ll find I protect this place a little more carefully than my one in Chicago. They say booby-traps are illegal but no one tramples on my right to protect my property.”

  Patrick did not actually turn Seanna out on the streets to fend for herself, pregnant with his child. He needed to deny paternity to her—he wouldn’t put it past Seanna to have brought a hidden tape recorder to catch an admission. But he knew the child was his, and his son would not suffer for the sins of his mother.

  He spoke to Veronica first. He told the truth, that the girl had decided a “rich author” was the perfect baby-daddy, the perfect sucker to be fleeced. Veronica clearly knew the girl, because she only said, “I wondered if it was something like that. She’s a troubled child.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  She nodded, but her look held only sympathy for Seanna, perhaps touched with guilt. If a child of Cainsville had gone so wrong, then they were all to blame. Which wasn’t true. Patrick suspected nothing had broken in Seanna Walsh. It simply hadn’t formed. The worst possible consequence of fae blood: sociopathy, taking a fae’s underdeveloped conscience and annihilating it entirely. However, to be perfectly honest about it, that too was their fault, was it not?

  “What does this have to do with Matilda?” Veronica asked.

  “Matilda? Nothing.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Obviously since the Walshes have no Cŵn Annwn blood, the child cannot be Matilda. But there is a connection. Is she . . .” She trailed off as if struggling to keep the hope from her voice. “Is Matilda coming?”

  “Yes, but can we not discuss this further? Please?”

  A few moments of silence. Then, “All right. But if the birth is significant, that girl is in no shape to be a mother. Or even to carry a baby to term. If she hasn’t already done irreparable damage with drugs or alcohol, that is.”

  He was trying not to think of that. Trying very hard.

  “I’ll look after it,” he said.

  Which he did. As best he could. He’d hoped Seanna would stay in Cainsville. From what he heard later, Rose had tried—desperately—to take the girl in when she realized she was pregnant, but she’d been unable to convince her to stay.

  Seanna fled to Chicago. Patrick followed. He found ways to get money to her, secretly. He even called in a sizable favor from another fae to impersonate an outreach worker offering free medical care and healthy food and prenatal vitamins and whatever Seanna needed. He’d half-expected the girl to demand cash instead, but to his surprise, she’d accepted the help. Happily accepted it even. She went to the appointments and she ate the food and she took the vitamins.

  From what Patrick could tell, she’d been clean since the pregnancy began. Well, as clean as she could get—still sneaking the occasional cigarette and beer. But she was taking care of herself and, more importantly, the baby in her belly, and that gave him hope. Seanna might be little more than a wild animal but, like an animal, she seemed to extend that self-interest and well-tuned sense of survival to her child, and the pregnancy proceeded without a hitch.

  Patrick was even there the day his son was born. He knew Seanna’s time was close, and he’d had her apartment bugged since the “outreach worker” helped her get it. He heard Seanna call for the ambulance, and he’d followed it to the hospital, affecting an older glamour, putting him in his seventies. Then he’d charmed the nurses into thinking he was someone’s grandfather, and they left him alone, there in the hall to hear his son’s first squall.

  A big, strapping, healthy boy—that’s what the doctor said. The next day, Patrick returned to the maternity ward in his old man guise, and “wandered” into Seanna’s room. She was reading a magazine, the baby sleeping in a basinet. She didn’t recognize Patrick—one glance at his gray hair and wrinkles and she stopped looking. He apologized for being in the wrong room and asked what the child’s name was. Seanna took at least five seconds to look up from her magazine, pointedly letting him know he was interrupting her rest time.

  “Gabriel,” she said.

  A nurse walked in, bathing supplies in hand, and overheard. “Oh, that’s lovely, dear. Is it a family name? Or is it after the archangel?”

  Seanna turned a level gaze on the woman. “No, it’s from my favorite childhood story. About the Wild Hunt, riders from hell that stalk the living. They’re also known as Gabriel’s Hounds.”

  Patrick coughed to hide his snort of laughter at the nurse’s expression. And he had to laugh, too, at the irony of naming the Tylwyth Teg’s future champion after the opposing team.

  “Actually,” he said. “The Wild Hunt sends souls of the damned into the afterlife, not the Christian hell. It’s an old Celtic legend.”

  The nurse’s expression said that wasn’t much better. “It’s time for the
baby’s bath. No visitors allowed.”

  “I understand. But may I . . .” He looked at the sleeping child. “May I hold him for a moment before I go?”

  He expected Seanna to protest, but she only shrugged. It was the nurse who gave his aged body a dubious look.

  “He’s big for a newborn,” she said. “You’ll want to sit down.”

  He took a seat in the visitor’s chair, and the nurse brought the baby from the bassinet.

  “He’s been sleeping, so he might fuss,” the nurse said.

  The child—Gabriel—did not fuss. He opened his blue eyes, and Patrick would not say the child looked pleased to find himself in the arms of a stranger, but he did seem resigned to it.

  There was little of Patrick in the child, at least in outward appearance. That was common with fae epil—offspring. Gabriel was a Walsh through and through, from the thatch of black hair to the pale skin to the blue eyes, already brighter than most. His solemn expression reminded Patrick of Rose, as did the keen gaze that traveled about the room and then rested on Patrick’s face, as if assessing him.

  “He’s a bright one,” the nurse said. “Inquisitive.”

  “Babies can’t see much past their noses at birth,” Seanna said. “I did my homework.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Patrick said. “You’ll make a good mother.”

  She turned to the nurse as if he hadn’t spoken. “Show me how to bathe him.”

  The nurse took Gabriel, and if Patrick felt a twinge of reluctance to let him go, it was balanced by the reassurance that all would be well. Whatever kind of person Seanna was, she would be a good mother. Their child was safe with her.

  A few days later, Patrick was again summoned to Cainsville. The note came from Veronica, but clearly at the behest of the other elders, and included the line, “I’ve said nothing to them,” which told him he would not enjoy this visit. He’d go, though. He might avoid Cainsville, but he didn’t hide from it.