The Huntsman did as he promised. He provided care and shelter and food. But nothing more. No attention, no affection, and certainly no respect. I was like a dog to him. If I disobeyed, he punished me with a psychic pain that left me in agony. And so I learned to obey and eventually stopped trying to escape, because this was, I realized, what I deserved. He was what I deserved.

The flashing scenes slowed, and I was in his house. Indoors, which was rare. I had a run and a kennel in the back, like a common cur. But now he’d brought me in and given me clothing to sniff. A target, because without that psychic link, I was reduced to this, again like a dog. Sniff and find. Find and kill. Except … not this time.

“She isn’t your usual prey,” he said. “She hasn’t done anything to deserve death.”

My hackles rose, and I had to fight not to growl. Growling was rebellion. But this … this I could not do. He’d given me targets before, and I had looked into their eyes, and enough of my power remained that I could see their guilt. That allowed me to do my sacred duty and send them to the afterlife.

“You won’t be killing her,” he said. “Just find her and watch her. That’s all they want. Surveillance.”

I looked up into his eyes and knew he was lying. Not about killing her—he retained enough of his nature that, like me, he could not kill the innocent. Yet she would die at another’s hands.

He gave me the clothing to sniff again and then a photo of a woman.

It was Lucy Madole.

The visions faded into another montage of scenes passing too quickly to make sense. When I surfaced, I still gripped Ricky’s hand as he leaned against the couch, his eyes shut, lids flickering, still in the vision, his breathing matching the hound’s. Then he gasped, his head jerking up, eyes opening.

He ran his free hand through his hair, saying, “Fuck. That … Fuck.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything, I think. That wasn’t like … Fuck.”

“Are you okay?”

A wan smile. “Besides feeling like I was dropped a hit of LSD and plunged down the rabbit hole?”

I squeezed his hand and looked over at the hound, who seemed to be sleeping, her head on Ricky’s leg. The door opened, and Ioan popped his head through. When I motioned him inside, he entered carrying an antipasto platter.

“And that is exactly what I need,” Ricky said. “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Ioan’s face, but he only said, “Good. Wine?” He glanced at Ricky. “Or would you prefer beer?” He made a face. “That was presumptuous, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Ricky said. “Wine is good. I won’t pretend I’m a connoisseur, though. I drink whatever Liv does.”

Ioan gave me a few choices. When I picked one, he left and returned a few minutes later to find us still sitting on the floor.

Ricky laid his hand on the hound’s head and that was all she needed to wake. She followed us into the next room. Brenin appeared as we were settling on a sofa and chair. He walked over, sniffing and nudging her. Then, satisfied, he lay by the fireplace.

“I suppose you want that turned on,” Ioan said.

Brenin just looked at him. Ioan sighed and started the fire.

“We got a vision from her,” I said.

That made Ioan stop and turn. “From the hound?”

“Her name is Fwnion.” I looked at her and smiled. “It means mild or gentle.”

“Fwnion,” Ricky said to her, patting her head.

She whined and ducked away.

“Or maybe not …” Ricky looked at Ioan. “We got a sense of what happened. She fought something in a forest with three other hounds. They died. She blames herself. She thinks the psychic break is punishment. That’s why she ran from her pack. I’m guessing her name brings up bad memories. Maybe we should try a new one.”

I remembered the opening of the vision, how she’d felt on the Hunt. “How about Lloergan? It means moonlight or moonshine.”

“Lloergan, then?” Ricky asked the hound. “A new name for a new life?”

She thumped her tail.

“A temporary new life, at least,” Ricky said. “We should keep trying to find her original Huntsman.”

Ioan pretended not to hear, but Ricky said, “It’s only right. Put out the word to your contacts and see if we get a bite.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Back to Cainsville after dinner. While waiting for Gabriel, I spent some quality time with TC, which amounted to feeding him and cleaning out his litter box while he watched. When I tried to pet him, he stalked off, and I threatened to replace him with a cŵn puppy. He ignored me.

Gabriel arrived, and we walked to Veronica’s. I told Melanie I’d like to speak to the other lamiae in Chicago, as part of the investigation. Just touch base, find out if they’d seen anything, heard rumors …

She said she’d talk to them, in a tone that warned me not to hold my breath. She knew full well I was looking for a killer among her sisters, and she was having none of it. Could I blame her? Not really. They were second-class fae and had suffered their share of witch hunts.

We returned to my apartment to grab my overnight bag and the cat. I worried a bit about how TC would react, given that he’d spent a few days locked in the Carew house basement. He zoomed in and made himself at home on the couch, as if nothing bad had ever happened to him there. Which makes him a lot like his human, who happily embraced the same house where she’d found a dead body in the attic.