Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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Текущая страница: 27 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

I jolted upright in bed, shouting, “No!”

Beside me, I heard a gasp as Gabriel leapt from his chair, eyes wide, fists raised.

We stared at each other for a second, both yanked from sleep.

I recovered first and laughed softly. “Well, I’m glad I was out of punching range when I woke you this time.” I’d made the mistake of waking him once, when he’d slept on my couch.

He rubbed his face and fell back into the chair. “Did you cry out?” he said.

“Hmm, I think so. Bad dreams.”

“What about?”

I stifled a yawn as I stretched. “I was arguing with James about you, something about what he said yesterday, and…” I shook my head. “That’s all I remember.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like a train ran me over, followed by a steamroller and then a herd of wild horses.”

I shifted to get comfortable and winced as every muscle screamed in a wave that threatened to knock me back onto the bed again. Gabriel rose and pushed pillows behind my back to keep me upright. He reached for a water pitcher on the bed-stand, saying the doctor wanted me drinking as much as I could.

I resisted the urge to joke about his nursing skills. If I did, he’d be back in that chair in a second, and I wanted to hold on to this a little longer, these few moments where he wasn’t quite fully awake. I watched him pouring the water, hair tumbling forward, face smooth, gaze open. That’s when I noticed the gouges under his dark stubble.

“Ouch. Did I do that?” I reached out, fingers stopping an inch from his cheek. Look, don’t touch.

He pulled a face. “Just a scratch. You were delirious.” He handed me the glass of water. “Drink up.”

Rose appeared in the doorway. When she saw us, she started to retreat. I would have let her, but Gabriel turned as if sensing someone there. He paused and it seemed as if he was going to pretend he hadn’t noticed her, but then he cleared his throat and called, “Rose?”

She returned.

“I was going to ask Olivia what she remembers from her vision at the house,” he said. “You should be here for that.”

“I’ll make tea and toast,” she said. “Get some food in you.”

I wanted to tell her yes, go on, give us a few more minutes alone, but my eyelids were flagging, lethargy pulling me under. “We’d better do this now, before I fall asleep again. I don’t want to forget it.”

I told them about the vision. When I finished, Rose left, saying she’d check her books.

“I’ll see what I can find online,” Gabriel said to me when she was gone.

“I can do—” I couldn’t stifle a yawn, then tried again. “I can do that.”

“Normally, I would be quite happy to let you,” he said. “Right now, the best thing you can do is sleep.”

“We need to talk about the rest first. About Cainsville. Rose has to know.” I glanced over. “If she doesn’t already.”

Gabriel’s expression betrayed him then, a tightening of his lips, and I knew this was the part he’d been dreading. Not telling Rose about Cainsville, but finding out how much she already knew. How much she’d kept from him.

“I can do that,” I said. “Why don’t you go get some rest—”

“I’m fine.”

“Clothing, then.” I glanced down at the satin chemise wrapped around me. “While this is lovely, I really should…” Another yawn.

“Take a minute,” Gabriel said, tugging the pillow out from under me so I slid down onto the bed.

I struggled to smile. “Thought you weren’t allowed to say that.”

“Only when I don’t mean it. Close your eyes.”

“Just for a moment,” I said, my lids dropping as if obeying a summons.

I fell asleep.

I awoke to find myself staring into a pair of eyes. Yellow eyes.

“TC?” I croaked, lifting my head from the pillow.

He blinked in response.

“I brought him over,” Gabriel said from the chair. “I was picking up your clothing, and he seemed concerned about you. I thought he might help you feel better.”

I looked at TC, sitting rigid and unblinking on the other pillow.

“Did you hear that?” I said. “I’m sick. You’re supposed to curl up with me. Cuddle. Purr.”

He lifted a paw and started to clean it. Then he hopped down and strolled from the room, tail high.

“Ingrate,” I called after him. I rolled over to look at Gabriel. “Is Rose downstairs? I really should talk to her.”

“I already did.”

“Oh.” I paused. “How did it go?”

He tensed. “Fine.”

Another pause, longer, then I pushed the words out. “Are you okay?”

I’d hesitated before asking, because this was one of those boundaries. Don’t ask him how he’s feeling. It presumes that he would have an emotional reaction, and, moreover, that he’d deign to share it with me.

So why did I ask? Because every time we drew closer, I had to press my fingers against those boundaries and see if they were still there. See if I’d made any progress.

I got as far as “Are you—” before the wall slammed down. His shoulders stiffened. His gaze cooled. Any hint of emotion emptied from his face.

“Yes, of course,” he said, words clipped.

I slumped back on the pillows.

There’d been a time when I’d imagined how many women over the years must have thought they’d be the one to break through Gabriel’s wall, and I’d decided I would never be so foolish.

Respect his boundaries. Don’t test them. Accept this relationship for what it is, because hoping for more is like hoping for that damned cat to race in here, cuddle up, and start purring.

I was closing my eyes when the door clicked, and my gut dropped, and I hated it for dropping, hated myself for reacting to him walking out.

The faint creak of chair springs made me jump. I rolled over to see Gabriel there again. The door was closed.

“I don’t think she knew exactly what Cainsville was,” he said, his voice low. “I may be deluding myself in that. I think…” He cocked his head as if searching for phrasing. “I believe she understood at some level, but never articulated it.”

“Which is why she was always joking about fairies and hobgoblins and wards.”

He nodded. “She wants to talk to us about your vision. I’ll bring you breakfast, and we’ll talk.”

“No, I’ll come down,” I said. I peeled back the covers and a wave of dizziness made my gorge rise.

Gabriel pulled up the covers. “Dr. Webster said the fever will drain you for a few days. Either you stay in bed or you go to the hospital—”

I tugged the sheets to my chin.

A brief smile. “I thought so. I’ll bring Rose and food.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

“This Tristan called you Mallt-y-Nos,” Rose said as we settled in. “You dreamed that you were a young woman named Matilda—”

“No, she wasn’t me. I was inside her.”

“All right. Mallt-y-Nos is, not surprisingly, a figure in Welsh folklore. Otherwise known as Matilda of the Night, or Matilda the Crone.”

“Crone, huh? That’s flattering.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer the other translations? Night Curse. Night Fiend. Night Hag.”

“And the story with Matilda is…?”

“She’s associated with the Wild Hunt, again not surprisingly. She’s the only woman who rides with them. In some stories, she leads them. The Hunt rides in pursuit of the recently dead, and if she captures a soul, it goes to the Otherworld. If she fails, it has a chance to pass to heaven.”

“So the Otherworld is hell?”

“That’s a late interpretation. Post-Christian, obviously. In the early stories, the Otherworld is merely the afterlife, undifferentiated, as in many pagan religions. In those older tales, I would presume Matilda just captures them and sends them on their way.”

“Like the grim reaper on horseback. In those versions, then, the Hunt chases spirits, not the living.”

“Sometimes. Other times, they hunt those not yet dead, those who may deserve death. Matilda sets the hounds on them and they rip the victim limb from limb, and she seizes the soul.”

“Lovely. So my vision has nothing to do with the story, then. Except for the hunt aspect.”

“No, that part, I believe, relates back to Matilda’s origin legend. One version says she was a beautiful noblewoman who loved to hunt. She declared that if there was no hunting in heaven, she did not wish to go there.”

“And so, on her death, she was doomed to hunt forever.”

Rose smiled. “You’re good at this.”

“Legends. So predictable. That’s not quite what I saw…”

“The other story is that Matilda was due to wed, and her husband disapproved of her hunting, so she promised never to go again after they were married. But she snuck out. He caught her and doomed her—”

“To ride forever,” I finished.

“And, yes, again, not what you saw, but rather a variation on it. In your vision, you—or Matilda—were to wed a fae king or prince.” She paused. “Did you hear his name?”

“I … don’t think so.” Some faint memory twitched. Had I heard names? Other than Matilda? I couldn’t remember.

“All right,” Rose said. “So Matilda was to wed this man, but she could not resist the call of the Wild Hunt, despite a vow never to join it again. In making that impulsive decision, the fae realm was closed to Matilda forever. Given what you’ve said of Cainsville and what’s happened to you, that has its parallels here.”

“Two sides wooing me. I must choose one. Despite the fact that I have no goddamned idea why they want me.”

“Mallt-y-Nos,” she said. “Mallt-y-Dydd. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Day. Those are your options.”

“When you put it like that … it still doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.”

“I know,” she said. “I’ll keep looking. Though I don’t know how much more I’ll find that will be useful. Folklore is a way of explaining the inexplicable. It’s humans guessing at the mysteries of the unknown. If there’s a true story, it’s not going to be in my books.”

I glanced over at Gabriel. He’d been silent during the discussion. Now, his brows arched as if to say, Don’t ask me. I’m as confused as you are.

“Okay, so back to the real world,” I said. “I need to– Shit! Work. My shift starts at—”

“I’ve called in sick for you,” Gabriel said.

“Thanks.” I paused. “I’m sure you have work to do, though.”

He fixed me with a cool look. “If I wanted to leave, I would. If you want me to leave, I should hope you would tell me to go. I do not feel obligated to stay. Nor do I require false niceties if you’d prefer I didn’t.”

“Nothing’s ever simple with you, is it?”

“I don’t see how it could be simpler. If I want—”

“Enough,” Rose cut in. “Don’t dissect the question, Gabriel. Just answer it.”

A pause. Then, “It’s Saturday. I do not need to work. However, my laptop is in the car, and I was going to retrieve it to do some work, but I drifted off.” He rose. “I’ll go get that, if it will make you feel less like you are imposing on my time.”

“It would.”

“He’s right,” Rose said as we heard Gabriel’s footsteps going down the stairs. “He didn’t stay because he felt obligated. If Gabriel does something, it’s because he wants to.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know what he would have done if anyone else had passed out at his feet? Called an ambulance. Oh, he’d stay until it came, but only because he might be sued for negligence otherwise. Then he’d be gone. He carried you back here. Running the entire way, I’m sure. You feel like you aren’t making progress—”

“Before he comes back, we need to talk about something.”

I pushed myself from the bed and joined her at the window. Gabriel was talking to Grace.

“Patrick is Gabriel’s father,” I said.

Her mouth opened, and I braced for the expected responses. Was I crazy? How could that be possible?

“Did Patrick say that?”

“He didn’t admit it outright, but he didn’t deny it, and I get the feeling that’s as much as he can do. As much as he’s allowed to do.”

She lowered herself to the bed, her fair skin paling. “Did you tell him?”

“Gabriel? God, no.” I glanced out the window again. Gabriel seemed to be talking to some guy getting out of a van. “Patrick screwed around with Seanna and fucked up her life. Then he fucked off on Gabriel. Abandoned him. He saw what was happening. Hell, all the elders apparently knew, because they wanted to do their changeling trick with Gabriel, but Patrick wouldn’t let them. He left Gabriel in that situation, with no support. And do you know why? To toughen him up. That’s what he said.” I realized how harsh my voice had gotten and stepped from the window. “No, I’d never tell him.”

A long silence, as Rose stared at the wall, her expression blank but her eyes moving, as if seeing something there. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Rose stood quickly, maybe worrying he’d overheard, but his steps kept coming at his normal pace, steady and deliberate.

A single rap on the almost-closed door.

“Come in.”

He pushed it open and stepped through, holding … daisies. He was clutching a bouquet of daisies with sprigs of small purple flowers. The stems were short, his hand dwarfing them, and he held them awkwardly, as if they were something he’d found on the road and didn’t quite know what to do with.

“Yours,” he said, thrusting the bouquet at me as Rose stepped out. “Ricky.”

“Ricky?”

“He called your cell this morning. I answered and told him you weren’t feeling well. Mild food poisoning. That seemed the simplest way to explain the situation in a way that wouldn’t bring him on the next plane.”

I took my flowers to the bed. “He’d know better than to hop a plane unless I was in critical condition, but yes, that’ll keep him from worrying. Thanks.”

The card with the flowers said only, “Check your e-mail when you’re up to it.” He’d left a longer message there:

Hope you’re feeling better. I told you I’m not good at flowers, but these reminded me of the ones at the cabin. I just hope they aren’t actually weeds. If they are … um, sorry. Either way, I’ll make it up to you with an actual trip to the cabin when I get back. Call me, but only when you feel better. I mean that, too. Rest up. All is fine here. Talk soon.

I fired off a Love the daisies. Call in an hour? and then laid my phone aside and said, “Okay, so where are we on everything?”

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

“Macy called me yesterday, and…”

“And?” Gabriel prodded when I didn’t continue.

I gave my head a sharp shake. “Sorry, just … there was something about Macy from my dreams, when I had the fever. Not surprisingly, considering she’s on my mind as much as the rest of it.”

“What did you dream?”

A short laugh. “Believe me, mine are not prophetic. I’ll leave that to Rose. I don’t even remember what it was. Probably some mixed-up nonsense like the rest of it. Did I mention I dreamed that James threw me off your balcony?”

“I don’t have a balcony.”

“Whew.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s without meaning. Your subconscious is acknowledging the threat that James poses and—”

“And did I say Macy called? I think she suspects something’s up with her and Ciara. Maybe it’s a gut feeling. Anyway, we need to discuss how we’re going to handle that. We can’t show up on her doorstep and announce…” A memory niggling at me again.

“I will refrain from telling you to take a minute,” Gabriel said. “But I think you should. There’s something there.”

“I know,” I muttered. “Follow the signs. Macy. Something about visiting her– Thanatochemistry. That book was on Macy’s shelf, with her nursing texts.” I did a quick search on my phone. “Thanatochemistry is mortuary science. I dreamed that Macy was going to embalm me, and Tristan was going to cut off my head.”

“Your subconscious was linking the textbook to Ciara’s embalming.”

“But I’m sure they don’t teach that in nursing school. Macy’s records indicate she went straight from high school to college. Maybe she’d been interested in mortuary science? If so, I might find it online.”

“I can’t imagine you’d add that to a dating profile.”

I sputtered. “I was referring to social media. Facebook, Twitter, and so on.”

A slight curl of his lip. “Ah.”

“Yes. I’m going to bet you don’t have a Facebook page.”

“My practice does, which Lydia maintains. We have Facebook and possibly MySpace.”

“MySpace? It’s 2012, Gabriel.”

“Perhaps not MySpace. That’s the one I recall from my college days.”

“Never had a page then, either, did you?”

“Certainly not. It’s a waste of time, and it’s dangerous. I’ve only ever been on Facebook when gathering information to influence potential sources.”

“Influence. I like that. So much nicer than blackmail. Back to the point, though. The actual purpose of Facebook is not to provide sources of potential influence, but to socialize. To talk to friends and to share things like hobbies and interests in hopes of finding new friends.”

His look said he couldn’t imagine the point. Whether he meant hobbies or friends, I don’t know. Probably both.

“People talk about their interests online. Let’s see if Macy ever mentioned dead people.” I picked up my laptop. “Later, I’ll set up a Twitter feed for the firm. Don’t worry—I’ll run it, too. Advertising tweets like: Gabriel Walsh, Attorney-at-Law. Finding the Saint in Satan’s Saints. Or helpful tips like: Note to clients, quicklime is a preservative not a corrosive.”

He gave me a look.

“We’ll work on it,” I said.

“Work on that.” He pointed at the laptop.

I’d gone through Macy’s online presences before now, but briefly, as a way to get to know her before our meeting. I didn’t find “embalming” in her list of Facebook interests, or photos of amazing pre-funeral reconstruction work on her Pinterest account.

What I did find was more subtle. A tag on a friend’s wall post from last Halloween. The friend had been dressing up as a zombie and tagged Macy, saying she should get Macy to help with the makeup because of “all that time she spent with dead people.” Another friend asked what she meant and the thread went on to joke about Macy hanging out at a local funeral home. Then Macy herself jumped in to snap that she hadn’t been “hanging out.” The conversation ended there.

I hadn’t actually thought Macy did embalm Ciara, as I’d seen in my dream. If I had, I wouldn’t have been joking with Gabriel about Facebook and Twitter. But now …

“That would mean she’s not an innocent bystander,” I said as I showed Gabriel the thread. “She didn’t meet Tristan at a party. She may have actually killed Ciara. For what? To get her family back? Tristan tells Macy that she should be living Ciara’s life, and she decides to … I can’t fathom that. I just can’t.”

“As legal grounds for defense, it’s so flimsy I wouldn’t even attempt it. Diminished capacity would be the only way to play it. Drugs, alcohol, mental illness.” He took my laptop. “Now, before we speculate any further, the comment mentions a funeral home on Lawrence Avenue. We’ll start there.”

There were three funeral parlors on Lawrence. I called the first. Someone picked up on the second ring.

“Walker Funeral Home,” a man said. “Kendrick Walker speaking. How may I assist you?”

His voice was pleasant, sounding older than I’d expect from someone named Kendrick. Once I explained that I was checking a reference on Macy Shaw, though, his tone changed, becoming younger and brighter, as if throwing off his professional voice once he realized I wasn’t a grieving relative.

“Oh, sure, Macy and I went to school together. Well, high school, and only for a couple of years before my parents moved.”

“Did she volunteer or work there?”

“In senior year. She wanted to become a mortician, so she worked here for two summers, but … Well, trust me, it’s not an easy career choice. Especially for a girl. Eventually the pressure got to her. She went into nursing. She kept working here for almost a year after she started college. She told people it was just for the money, but I think she was still considering.”

“May I ask you for a reference? Or should that go through someone else?”

“Probably my dad. I’d just tell you she was great. If you talk to her, tell her Kendrick said hi. It’s been a while.”

“I’ll do that. And on another note … This is a little awkward, but as long as I have you on the phone…”

“What’s up?”

“I have an uncle in palliative care, and the funeral home we always used has closed down. I know that’s the last thing on my aunt’s mind, but … the end is close. Is there any chance I could come over and have a chat with someone? See your establishment?”

“When?”

“As soon as possible. It really is … close to the end.”

“I completely understand.” His tone changed, reverting to the soothing one. “We can make an appointment for tomorrow, or tonight after seven—there’s a viewing right now.”

“Seven would be great.”