Instinct

Forever and A Day By Kelley Armstrong

THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN FINDING a dead body is finding part of a dead body. This isn’t the first time I’ve experienced that delight…or the first time the body part in question was a head… or even the first time that head was in my bed.

I wake that sunny Saturday morning, stretching and rolling over to greet my husband, only to find myself staring at a tiny, decapitated mouse head on his pillow.

“TC!” I shout, scrambling out of bed. “What the hell is this?”

There’s no sign of the damned cat. Damned matagot, I should say. What’s a matagot? I have no idea, despite living in a town founded by fae beings, being married to a half-fae guy, and having fae and Wild Hunt blood myself. Ask any of those fae about TC, and all I get is a dismissive “He’s a matagot,” as if that explains everything. It explains nothing.

Naturally, I’ve tried to look it up, and what I get is that a matagot is a magical cat of French legend, one that supposedly gives its owner a piece of gold each day.

There is no gold.

If TC could talk, I’m sure he’d say I haven’t earned it, despite adopting him from the streets, spoiling him rotten, and saving his life at least once. Maybe he’s waiting for a real name, something better than The Cat.

When I shout, footsteps thump up the stairs; Gabriel taking them two at a time. By the time he arrives, though, he’s slowed to a stride, as if he just happened to need something up here and didn’t come running when I yelped.

“Olivia?”

He appears in the doorway. He fills that doorway. Tall, broad shouldered, carrying a few extra pounds around his middle, but he wears it well. He wears his impassive “I am not concerned” look equally well.

I wave at the mouse head on his pillow. “We’re feeding him, right? Kibble. Chicken. Tuna. Everything a kitty could want?”

Gabriel wordlessly tugs a tissue from the bedside box, picks up the mouse head and disappears into the bathroom. A moment later, the toilet flushes. Then he returns with a fresh pillowcase, replaces the mouse-head-throne one and drops it into the hamper. Only after that’s done does he aim a disapproving stare at TC, who has strolled in behind him.

“You’re up early,” I say as I swing my legs out of bed.

Gabriel leans over to kiss the top of my head. “I’m making breakfast before I leave.”

“Leave?” I reach for my phone. “It’s Saturday, right?”

“It is, but I received a call just before five. An old client with a new case.”

“Case?” I perk up, making the corners of his mouth twitch in the faintest smile.

“Possibly,” he says. “I’m meeting him at the office, where I’ll determine whether I wish to take his case.”

“Ah. A bit of ethical gray in this one?”

His brows rise.

“Sorry,” I say. “Let me rephrase. A bit too much ethical gray in this one?”

“With this particular client, I suspect there’s very little white mixed into the black… and not enough compensation to overlook it.”

According to a recent article, Gabriel is Chicago’s most infamous defense attorney under the age of thirty-five. He spent a week with that article on his desk, attempting to incinerate it with his irritation. It was the “under thirty-five” qualifier that annoyed him. I assured him that someday, he’ll be the most infamous defense attorney of any age. Marriage is all about supporting your partner’s dreams.

I suppose I should say that I never imagined myself ending up with a guy who has Gabriel’s wayward moral compass. That’d be bullshit. I’m a former socialite. I come from the sort of moneyed world that thrives on ethical gray—they’re just better at whitewashing over it.

I prefer this. Gabriel is honest about what he does, and he sets limits and stays within them, no matter how much he’s offered. Being half fae, he doesn’t see right and wrong the way humans do, but that’s an excuse he’d never use. This is who he is, and I’m fine with it, because I’ve discovered it’s who I am, too.

We eat breakfast on the back deck, enjoying the cool spring morning and watching the sun rise over the fence. Then I play 1950’s housewife and walk my darling hubby to the front door, kissing his cheek as I hand him his coffee before leaning against the jamb in my silk robe while his Jag purrs from the driveway.

It’s a good life. A really good life. The only part I’d change is the damned cat meowing at my feet despite the fact I gave him half my bacon. When he swipes at my bare ankle, I jump.

“Ingrate,” I mutter. “Next time, I’m eating it all.”

TC stares up at me. Then he pulls my gaze to a bird perched on the oak tree. A single magpie. The hairs on my neck prickle.

One for sorrow.

I snap a shot with my phone. When I check, I have a photo of the oak branch…and no sign of the bird I still see perched there.

An omen.

I hit the phone app and tap the top number. It goes straight to Gabriel’s voice mail, as it should, so he’s not answering his phone while driving. Ha! No, going to voice mail means he’s on a call, probably telling the client he’s on his way.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say. “When you were leaving, there was a magpie on the oak out front. One magpie, which wasn’t in a photo I took, and you know what that means. Just be careful, okay? Give me a shout when you get this.”

I end the call and stand on the porch, watching the magpie that exists only in my mind.

Gabriel and I don’t get what you’d call “gifts” from our fae blood. No invisibility or shape-shifting or magical powers. He has a talent for manipulation, which could come from his bòcan father…or it could just be Gabriel. I have the ability to see omens. Does that include any kind of translation guide? Nope. It’s like a warning light on my car, telling me something is wrong without providing an iota of diagnostic information.

TC meows.

“I know, I know,” I mutter. “Something’s wrong, and it has to do with Gabriel.”

I try his number again. Still voice mail. My heart stutters, and I flip to the locator app, with visions of the Jag crashed in a smoking heap, Gabriel trapped inside. It’s happened before. Okay, I was driving, but a fae caused the crash, in my defense.

No, there’s his little tracking dot zooming out of Cainsville.

I know where he’s going, and while I can’t catch up with him—the man drives as if he’s single-handedly responsible for funding the police charity ball—I can meet him at the office. That’s better than sitting at home, fretting.

I go inside and head upstairs. In our room, I toss my robe onto the chair, turn toward the bed—

There’s another mouse head on Gabriel’s pillow.

“TC!” I bellow.

A clatter sounds downstairs. A clatter that is not my little nine-pound kitty. Footsteps pound up the stairs.

I take my gun from the nightstand as someone runs down the hall. I have the gun poised, ready—

Gabriel rounds the corner. “What’s wrong?”

I lower the gun as I exhale. “You came back. Good.”

His dark brows rise. “Came back? I was downstairs making coffee, and I heard you shout.” His gaze moves to the pillow. “Ah, I don’t blame you for that.” He plucks out a tissue and picks up the head.

“Wait,” I say. “You already did that.”

“Did what?”

“I woke up and saw the head. You put it into the toilet and changed the pillowcase.”

He frowns. “No, I just came up now, and I was going to take this outside, but the toilet is a better idea.”

He takes it into the bathroom and flushes it down.

I move into the bathroom doorway. “We already did this, Gabriel. Then we had breakfast, and you left for the office.”

His brows knit. “But it’s Saturday.”

“You got a call.”

A moment’s more confusion. Then his brow smooths. “I believe I can solve this mystery. You woke up, saw the mouse head, fell back to sleep, and dreamed that I came up to dispose of it. Then you woke up and saw the head again. I have no intention of working today. I’m making breakfast and then spending the weekend with my lovely wife. Come down for coffee. There’s no need to dress.” His gaze lingers over my naked body. “You look fine just the way you are.”

Gabriel leaves. TC hops onto the bed and stares at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m not stupid.”

I pull on my robe and head downstairs.

When I reach the kitchen doorway, I stop and say, “Hey, Gabe?”

“Yes, dear?”

He turns, coffee mug in hand, and I shoot him in the foot. He lets out an unearthly shriek and falls, gripping his foot. The Gabriel glamour ripples, giving me a glimpse of glossy skin and wings before the doppelgänger reverts to Gabriel’s form.

“Cold-iron bullet,” I say, hefting the gun. “Stay on the floor. You even start to stand, and I’ll fire again.”

“You shot me,” he says in a perfect imitation of Gabriel’s voice. “Liv? Why would you do that? Are you unwell?”

“Cut the shit,” I say. “Next time, try learning a little about a subject before you impersonate him. Lovely wife? Dear? Hell, Gabriel never calls me Liv, and if I ever called him Gabe, he’d be putting that bullet in me, knowing I was a doppelgänger.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Count of five,” I say. “Either you drop the act—and the glamour—or the next bullet goes a whole lot higher. If you don’t think I’ll do it, then you really haven’t researched this mission.”

He scowls. The Gabriel glamour ripples and then pops as the doppelgänger takes on a generic human form—a middle-aged white man of average size with brown hair and brown eyes.

TC strolls into the kitchen. The doppelgänger hisses at him.

I don’t know much about this German subtype of fae. I’ve only ever encountered one. They’re rare. They’re also not known for being terribly bright, which is a boon to the rest of us, reducing the chance they can convince you they’re someone you trust.

As I keep the gun trained on the doppelgänger, I phone Gabriel and, again, get his voice mail.

“Hey,” I say when the beep prompts me to leave a message. “So, I figured out that warning. A doppelgänger just tried to impersonate you. Can you call me back, please?”

I flip to the tracking app and check Gabriel’s dot. He’s halfway to Chicago. Still on the phone? Or is something tampering with his phone signal?

I pocket the phone and turn to the doppelgänger. “Who sent you?”

“Someone Gwynn ap Nudd crossed. Someone who should not be crossed.”

Gwynn ap Nudd. A Welsh king of the fae. Some fae think Gabriel is Gwynn reincarnated. It’s more complicated than that, but not entirely inaccurate.

“You mean you were sent by someone Gabriel pissed off.” I snort. “You have to be a whole lot more specific than that.”

“And if I don’t want to be more specific?”

I waggle the gun. Over the next ten minutes, I do more than waggle it, to no avail. The doppelgänger was sent to impersonate Gabriel and spend the morning with me, presumably to keep me distracted, but he only knows his instructions. Like I said, doppelgängers aren’t known for being geniuses, and a smart employer wouldn’t tell him more than necessary.

Time is ticking. I’ve already placed a call, and when the doorbell rings, I shout, “Come in!”

Most of the Cainsville elders fly under the radar by taking on the glamour of senior citizens. Young people never notice when the old stay old. Patrick is special…or he thinks he is, which is another thing altogether. He refuses to follow the rule, and he’s powerful enough to get away with it. He looks younger than Gabriel, which is disconcerting, considering he’s Gabriel’s father. We never call him that. He doesn’t deserve it, having played no role in Gabriel’s upbringing, even to rescue him from a spectacularly shitty homelife.

Patrick doesn’t resemble Gabriel. Not surprising, given that what I see is his human glamour. His real form is a whole lot…greener. His fae type has many names—bòcan, hobgoblin, boggart—but the best-known example is Shakespeare’s Puck. A wild and capricious creature of the forest. Patrick much prefers his human glamour, which looks like a twentysomething bohemian, the kind of guy you can picture writing in a café. Not far off, since that’s what he actually does for a living.

I steer Patrick into the kitchen as I tell him what happened.

Patrick walks up to the doppelgänger. “Who sent you?”

“We’ve already been through that,” I say. “His employer told him as little as possible, and I’m not wasting more time interrogating him when someone wanted me distracted while they go after Gabriel.”

“Oh, I can make him talk,” Patrick says.

“Feel free. But I’m not sticking around for it.”

“You’re right. Gabriel’s in trouble. We need to go.”

“I need to go. You need to babysit this guy.”

Patrick eyes the doppelgänger. “That doesn’t seem like much fun at all.”

“It isn’t about fun.” I scoop up my car keys. “It’s about Gabriel.”

“Good point. In that case, I should go, and you should watch this one.”

I start for the door. “Nope, you get the shitty job because one of us owes Gabriel far more than the other.”

“And when do I finish paying that particular debt?”

“It’s a fae blood debt, meaning it’ll take forever and a day.”

“That is not a thing, Liv,” Patrick says as he stalks after me. “You can’t simply make these things up.”

“Can. Will. Did.” I point at the kitchen. “Watch him. If you get bored, interrogate him.”

“Why don’t we both go after Gabriel? You just need to tie this one up. You must have something here.”

“Handcuffs, but they’re not cold iron.”

“Then what use are…” He trails off. “Don’t answer that.”

“I wasn’t about to.” I open the front door. “Call me if he tells you anything useful.”

I climb into the Maserati Spyder—the favorite of my cars. Yes, I have more than one car. A garage full of them, in fact, stored in Chicago. They’re an inheritance from my adoptive father, and while I only use the Spyder and a more sedate sedan, I can’t bring myself to sell the collection. They’re the only tie I have to him, and I hoard them like a dragon with its last pieces of gold. I’ve reunited with my birth father—the one descended from the Wild Hunt—and in a way, that makes me even more reluctant to cut ties with the man who raised me. Driving his beloved cars maintains a link I don’t want to sever.

I’m about to pull from the driveway when a black shape moves on the passenger seat. I whirl, hands rising to defend myself. TC gives me a baleful look.

I lean over him to open the passenger door. “This isn’t a joyride, kitty. Out you go.”

He stands, as if to leave, and instead stretches out and digs his claws into the leather seat.

“Hey!” I say. “None of that.”

He fixes me with another look.

“Fine,” I mutter. “You can stay but scratch the upholstery and you’re walking back.”

Gabriel’s office is in Chicago, which is nearly an hour away. I work there, too, as his investigator, and I’m accustomed to the commute, but today it seems impossibly long. I’ve blown up his phone with enough messages that it’s stopped offering the option. I’ve texted. I’ve emailed. Nothing.

The last time I checked, his tracking dot was at the office. All I can do is get there.

The doppelgänger referred to Gabriel by Gwynn’s name. That’s significant. It means whoever Gabriel “wronged” is not only fae, but a fae who knows who he is and knows they don’t need to hide their own identity around him. That makes this all the more serious—if fae feel the need to blend, it hobbles their ability to use their powers.

According to human folklore, Gwynn ap Nudd was king of the Tylwyth Teg, the Welsh fae. There are dozens of stories attributed to Gwynn, but one is missing. One very significant story: the tale of Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Hunt.

In human lore, Matilda was a noblewoman who refused to give up hunting when she wed and so was doomed to hunt forever. Nice, huh?

The truth is that she was half Tylwyth Teg and half Cŵn Annwn, the Welsh Wild Hunt. Matilda grew up with the princes of both sides and fell in love with one: Gwynn ap Nudd. Furious, the prince of the Cŵn Annwn—Arawn—called in a blood oath that forced Gwynn to agree that if Arawn could woo Matilda to his side before their wedding day, she’d be his, and the world of the fae closed to her forever.

Not knowing of this pact, Matilda went off to hunt with Arawn the night before she was married. When she saw the world of the Tylwyth Teg closing behind her, she tried to get back to it and died, leaving both men without their beloved, which served them right, really, though it was a shitty thing to happen to Matilda. I can say that with some conviction because I remember it all, having Matilda’s memories deep in my brain.

Gabriel is a distant descendant of Gwynn and his living embodiment, with Gwynn’s memories, just as I’m the living embodiment of Mallt-y-Nos. As for Arawn, Ricky’s a biker with an MBA—and a good friend.

What goes around comes around, especially in fae lore. For now, we have this one sorted, and if this fae is calling Gabriel by Gwynn’s name—which the Tylwyth Teg know Gabriel hates—it only means he’s being an asshole. Most fae are, at heart. Present company included.

As I fret about Gabriel and try to pass it off as devious plotting, TC stays quiet. We reach the office, and TC finally stirs, bracing himself on the dash to look out the windshield.

“Yep,” I say. “Gabriel’s car is here.”

TC leans into the dashboard, as if only stretching from the long drive and not the least concerned about the welfare of this mere human. Even if said human is very warm on cold nights and, unlike the selfish female one, doesn’t kick him off her side of the bed.

I open my door. “Okay, so here’s the plan—”

TC hops over me and zooms along the driveway into the alley, where mice might be found.

“Thanks!” I call after him. “Your help is appreciated, as always.”

I mutter under my breath. “Damn matagot. No gold pieces, no laser vision, no fire-breathing fury. Some magical cat you are.”

I swear his ears twitch as he trots down the alley.

“Just kidding,” I murmur. “You did warn me this was serious.”

I resist the urge to phone Gabriel again. Instead, I check my gun and slide it into my jacket pocket. Then I step out and stretch. I don’t need to stretch, but I’m taking my cue from the cat and trying to appear nonchalant in case our fae foe is watching.

The best way to handle this is to play the card I have been dealt. Be what they expect me to be. I might not have the ability to put on a glamour, but I’m fae—I don’t need superpowers to be something I am not.

I will be silly blond Matilda, whose only power lies in her ability to cause men to make rash and daft promises.

I head for the door with two steaming coffee cups in hand, having whipped through a drive-thru to collect the props. Black coffee for Gabriel, and a mocha for me. As I walk, I slurp happily and bounce along, the young lawyer’s wife in her yoga pants and sneakers and designer spring jacket… The last being perfect for the Chicago wind and also bulky enough to hide my gun.

Gabriel’s office is in a Chicago greystone. Like New York’s brownstones, only gray. It’s a gorgeous building, and we now own all of it, a huge step up from when Gabriel first rented the main level, back when there’d been a meth lab in the basement. He’d had nothing to do with the lab besides helping the owner out of any legal troubles. Yes, at that age, Gabriel had known and employed ninety-five percent of the illegal ways to turn a buck—spending his teen years on the street taught him that—but he drew the line at drugs. That’s what happens when you’re raised by a mother addicted to everything but proper parental care.

The greystone’s front door is unlocked. I throw it open and give a little stumble going in, as if I can’t quite manage a heavy door plus two hot drinks. Once inside, I head for the main floor office. I throw open the door and trill, “Honey? I bought treats!”

The answering silence makes my stomach flip, but I keep smiling as I set the coffees on Lydia’s desk.

“Gabe?” I call. “It’s Liv!”

Earlier, I said that if I ever called my husband “Gabe,” he’d shoot me as a doppelgänger. Not entirely true. He’ll understand it’s a warning. Also, he doesn’t carry a gun.

“Are you here, sweetie?” I call. “I saw your car. Ooh, is this a game?”

I swing through his office door. Inside, his open laptop sits on the desk. The screen is locked but not off, meaning he’s been away only a few minutes. Just then, footsteps clomp upstairs where we keep the storage boxes. There’s a distinct thump, and I can picture Gabriel moving boxes as he hunts for the right one.

That’s when I see the open folder on the desk. It’s a client file, and on the top page, there’s a notation that additional information can be found in a file box. With a business like Gabriel’s, it’s best not to store everything online, even if it’s a pain in the ass to search through boxes.

A coffee mug rests on the visitor’s side of the desk. I peer in. It’s half-full of cold coffee that hasn’t yet skimmed over. Gabriel met his client here and was going through his file when he came across something he needed to access upstairs.

So, where’s the client?

No way would Gabriel take him upstairs to the file vault. I slide out my gun and move into the main reception area. Then I tilt my head, listening. Upstairs, there’s another footfall and another box thump. Gabriel’s still looking.

The blur catches me off guard, damn it, and I’m furious enough about it that I lose a split second of reaction time. There is nothing to hide behind over there, so I wasn’t paying attention to that spot…where a fae was apparently using the rare ability of fading into the background, which works until it moves.

As I spin, that blur turns into a woman, her gun rising as mine does.

I stop. Her gun isn’t pointing at me. It’s aimed straight up, through the old flooring.

“Yes, he’s right there,” she says. “Coincidentally.” Her lips purse. “No, not coincidence at all. You children are so easy to manipulate.”

She looks younger than me, with short red hair and a wide mouth. As I watch, the glamour shifts to that of a man in his fifties, stout and wearing an expensive but unflattering suit.

The fae pretends to hold a phone to her ear, “Mr. Walsh,” she drawls with a southern accent. “It’s been a long time, but it seems I need your help again. No, it’ll have to be this morning. At your office.”

“Yeah, I get it,” I say, still holding the gun as she shifts back to her redhead glamour. “You lured Gabriel here pretending to be one of his old clients.”

“Lured you both here,” she says with a smirk. “Such simple children. Did you congratulate yourself on seeing through that dimwitted doppelgänger’s act so quickly? Oh, no, my dear love is in danger! I must fly to his side! No time to pause and tell the elders what’s happened!”

I keep my features schooled even as irritation darts through me. Okay, I was set up. This was all set up, including Gabriel being unable to find the right file, I presume, keeping him upstairs.

“Lower your weapon,” she says. “It won’t do you any good anyway.”

“Sure it will. Cold-forged iron bullets.”

She puts out her free hand. “Toss one over.”

I take one out. She catches it in her hand, squeezes it and then opens her fingers to show no more than a slight reddening of the skin.

“Such children,” she says, her lip curling. “Shoot me with that, and it will sting, but I would still have time to shoot both you and your lover.”

“What do you want?”

“A little chat.”

“Do you know how to use a phone?”

“I wanted both of you, in the same place, out of that cursed Tylwyth Teg town.”

I motion around us. “You wanted to speak to us together? Come during business hours. We both work here.”

“Yes, with that old woman and a constant flow of humans, and even then, you’ve barely been in this office together in the past week. Are you going to keep questioning me when I’m holding a gun on you?”

I still don’t like it. There’s more to this, and I’ve already screwed up once. I don’t want to be the “foolish human” again.

But did I really screw up? What if I’d realized the doppelgänger wanted me to fly to the office to warn Gabriel? Would I have crawled back into bed and refused to play? Of course not. I’m only annoyed that I didn’t see the ploy first.

“Poor little Matilda,” the fae continues. “It takes that brain of yours a few extra moments to catch up, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not Matilda. Mallt-y-Nos, yes. Matilda, no. There’s a difference, and if you came thinking I can do something for you—as Matilda—you’re about to be disappointed. Being Mallt-y-Nos means I’m useful to the Tylwyth Teg and the Cŵn Annwn, and nobody else.”

“Oh, I have no use for you, Matilda. No one ever did, except those two hapless fools. They were the ones with power. You were just the pretty girl caught in the middle.”

“Ouch.” I sniff. “You’re so mean. I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore.”

“That’s fine, because my quarrel is with the great Gwynn ap Nudd. You are just the means to an end, as you always were.”

Her hands fly up, and the glamour evaporates, revealing something barely humanoid, a writhing mass of thorns. She charges. I try to fire my gun, hoping to get Gabriel’s attention, but she’s inhumanly fast. She knocks it from my hand, slicing my jacket open with her thorns. I dive and hit the floor in a roll. When she launches herself at me, I slam a rolling file cabinet into her. Then I run for the door, because I’m not stupid. I don’t even know what kind of fae this is—only that I can’t fight something covered in thorns.

As I run, I dodge to retrieve my gun. It might not kill her, but it could slow her down. I’m scooping it up when thorns stab the back of my knee, buckling it. As I fall, I twist in outrage. I thought I didn’t let her get that close to me…and I didn’t. She’s still five feet away. She fired the thorns into my leg.

Seriously? What the hell kind of fae is this?

I go to grab the gun again, but thorns hit the back of my other knee, and I fall. There’s motion in front of me, and before I can look up, my gun is snatched from the floor.

“Stop,” a voice says. A very calm, very deep voice that makes my insides sink in relief. Gabriel. Then I remember the doppelgänger, and I tense, but when I look up, Gabriel’s pointing the gun at the fae, not me. His impression is completely impassive, as if he’s caught a teen breaking into his office. That look tells me this is indeed my husband.

The fae’s glamour returns. “Cold-forged iron won’t kill me. I already had this conversation with Matilda.”

“Olivia,” he says. “Her name is Olivia.”

“Oh, she has many names, and I know them all, just as I know yours, Gwynn.”

“I’m not Gwynn.”

“You think I don’t see you in there, Gwynn? I have spent centuries searching, through endless half-fae bastards, catching a glimpse of you here and there, but never enough. Never truly Gwynn. Finally, I find you, and I wait for this week—the only week you gave me—and I had to seethe as those days ticked past. I will not wait for my next chance.”

“I have no idea—”

“You cursed me,” she spits. “Out of jealousy, you cursed me so I can only glamour myself one week each year. The rest I am this.” She changes back to that thorny mass. “There is no place for fae to hide anymore, Gwynn, and so I spend my life in the shadows, slinking like a rat.”

“I am not Gwynn. I have some of his memories, but you aren’t one of them. Not who you are or what you did or how to uncurse you.”

“What I did? I just told you what I did. Nothing. You were jealous.”

He shakes his head. “I have enough of his memories to know jealousy would not be the answer.”

She returns her glamour and sneers. “Not the answer? You killed your beloved Matilda out of jealousy. You let her die rather than share her with another.”

Gabriel flinches. He might not be truly Gwynn, but there’s enough of Gwynn in him to make him flinch at that, even if he knows it’s not the truth. The story might be “jealousy” but as with any story, the truth goes much deeper, and while it doesn’t absolve him, I have enough memories of Gwynn myself to know that Gabriel is right. Whatever this fae did, she deserved the curse. The quiet and gentle young man Matilda loved grew cold and hard after her death, but he would never have issued such a curse if it wasn’t warranted—no more than Gabriel himself would do such a thing.

“You will undo the curse,” she says.

“I don’t know who you are. I have no idea how to—”

Her glamour snaps off, and she launches herself at me. Gabriel fires twice, but it doesn’t even slow her. I try to roll out of the way, only to have thorns pin me down, making me howl in agony. With a roar, Gabriel charges. He’s running straight for her. Straight for that writhing mass of thorns.

“Gabriel!”

Something flies past him. A blur of black. It leaps and lands on the fae, toppling her over as she screams.

Gabriel stops short. I wrench out the thorns pinning me down as he runs to help me. The fae is on the ground, shrieking, and all I can see is something black, ripping into her despite the thorns.

Gabriel helps me to my feet. The fae goes still. She’s still alive, but blood drips from a dozen wounds, and her eyes roll in fear and pain. And perched on her chest is a black cat.

“TC?” I say.

The door behind us flies open.

“I know who it is,” Patrick’s voice says. “The doppelgänger mentioned Thiten, and I recognized the name from my books. Gwynn…”

He stops as he sees the scene in front of us.

“Is that your cat?” he says.

“Apparently,” I say. “Our intruder really doesn’t seem to like him.”

“TC warned me upstairs,” Gabriel says. “I saw him, and I knew if he was here, Olivia was, which meant something was wrong.”

“Huh.” Patrick walks over to the fae. “She’s even uglier in real life.”

The fae spits at him but doesn’t try to rise, her gaze fixed on TC.

“Thiten,” Patrick says. “A very old fae, last of her kind. She lured young women to her home, where they were forced to work until they dropped dead. Gwynn cursed her so she couldn’t glamour herself and trick humans.”

I walk over and look down at the thorn-covered fae. “Fitting punishment.”

TC stands on Thiten’s chest, his fur puffed, and I swear I can feel him vibrating with tension. With anger? Or just adrenaline? I bend to give him a quick pat. As soon as I touch him, the world shifts, and I am perched on a castle roof.

I’m on a roof, and I’m holding a black cat. And then I am the black cat, and I’m being held by a girl, a scullery maid. The images swirl and merge, the girl and the cat. That’s when I realize what we’re watching, and my breath catches.

Down below Matilda rides to her final hunt. My chest seizes, and I want to look away, but in this vision, I’m not Matilda. I’m the maid and the cat, and we’re watching Matilda, and as the girl, I’m happy for her. She’s going to Arawn, where she belongs. Arawn is the right choice, sweetness and sunlight to Gwynn’s dark chill.

The maid watches, and she is pleased with herself for not telling her mistress what she overheard about the pact between the young men. Matilda should be with Arawn, and this is—

This is death. That’s what comes next. Matilda realizing the world of the Tylwyth Teg is closing to her and trying to ride back. Gwynn is there, shouting at her to keep going, willing to lose her to Arawn rather than see her fall into the fire between them.

Matilda does run into the fire. And so does the little maid, black cat clutched in her arms. She runs to warn her mistress, to tell her what she should have said before. She runs, and she falls into the fiery abyss, the cat still in her arms, and when she wakes…

Matagot.

I’m thrown, gasping, from the vision. I look down, and all I see is TC, my vision blurring with tears. This isn’t the little maid. It isn’t Matilda’s cat, either. But there are bits of both here, just as there are bits of Matilda in me.

Endless rebirth. Endless seeking. Endlessly trying—like me, like Gabriel, like Ricky—like us, to make things right.

I forget about Thiten. She’s no longer important. Patrick will take her, and the elders will deal with her. As he restrains the fae, I quickly tell Patrick and Gabriel what I saw.

“Enid,” Gabriel says. “The little maid was Enid, and the cat was Derog. I remember them.”

“I don’t,” I say wistfully.

“It’ll come,” Patrick says. “And TC isn’t either of them. Not really.”

“I know. Still…”

I lift TC onto the desk and bend to look him in the eyes. “You thought you owed a debt. You didn’t, but I understand. That’s why you found me. Thank you.” I stroke the top of his head. “You saved my life, and you are now free of any obligation.”

“And me?” Patrick says.

I straighten and look at him. “You didn’t save our lives.”

He waves at Thiten. “I’m taking a threat off your hands, and not for the first time. We’re square?”

Gabriel’s brows furrow. He has no idea what we mean, of course. I’m the one who never lets Patrick forget what he did because I’m the one who cares, on Gabriel’s behalf.

“Forever and a day,” I call as I head for the door.

“Not actually a thing!” he calls after me.

I turn to face him. “Do you want me to stop calling you into adventures?”

“No, but I’d like to actually go on the adventure now and then.”

I shake my head.

“I’ll follow you home,” Gabriel murmurs to me. “To be safe. And thank you for coming.”

I arch my brows. “Do you ever think I wouldn’t?”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips as he leans down to press his lips to mine.

“Forever and a day,” I murmur.

“Forever and a day,” he says.

We separate, and I see the coffees on Lydia’s desk. I lift mine, take a sip and make a face.

“Cold, damn it.” I shake my cup at Thiten. “You owe me a mocha.”

Gabriel’s smile grows a little. “We’ll stop at the bakery on the way home. A near-death escape, a captive ancient fae, and a mocha.”

“Best day ever.”

We head outside. Gabriel goes to his car, and when I open the door of mine, TC is right there. He hops over me onto the passenger side.

I slide in and turn to him. “I meant it, TC. Please don’t stay because you feel obligated.”

He eyes me, and in that look I see a question, and I have to smile.

“Of course, you’re welcome to stay. You are always welcome. Just don’t ever feel obligated.”

He settles in on the seat.

“Excellent,” I say as I start the engine. “Now let’s talk about the gold coins.”

He gives me a look.

I reach to pat him. “Kidding. No gold coins required. No dramatic rescues required. You have a place to stay, with all the tuna you can eat and all the pets you can endure.” I meet his eyes. “Forever and a day.”

He stretches out on the seat, and I smile and back the Spyder out onto the road.

Kelley Armstrong believes experience is the best teacher, though she’s been told this shouldn’t apply to writing her murder scenes. To craft her books, she has studied aikido, archery and fencing. She sucks at all of them. She has also crawled through very shallow cave systems and climbed half a mountain before chickening out. She is however an expert coffee drinker and a true connoisseur of chocolate-chip cookies.

Connect with Kelley at: https://www.kelleyarmstrong.com