“He didn’t—”

“Can you look at it another way? Who’s the one taking the real chance here? The professional and financial risk? Gabriel. A guy who does not take risks. Not personal. Not professional. Certainly not financial.”

“Exactly. So what’s his endgame?”

Ricky paused at the water’s edge, hands shoved into his pockets as he looked out over the lake. “Ah, that’s the problem. You don’t trust the offer is genuine.”

“He just made a generous job offer, for a research and investigative position . . . to a debutante waitress with a degree in Victorian lit. He’s up to something.”

“Gabriel’s always up to something. But if you’re looking for an ulterior motive here, I don’t see it. Again, flip it around. He’s busy. He’s turning down clients, well-paying clients. Now that he has Pamela’s case, it’ll only get worse. One thing they teach you in business school? As soon as you can afford it, delegate, as much as possible. Gabriel should have done that years ago, but he has very particular needs. You know what happened in Desiree’s apartment. Did you ever threaten to tell anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. One more reason you are that very rare person Gabriel could hire to fix his staffing problem. There’s no endgame, Olivia. I’d stake my bike on it.”

I chuckled. “You might not want to do that. I’ve never ridden one, but I’m a fast learner and I bet it’s got more horsepower than my Jetta.”

“Probably. But my offer for a ride is still open.”

“Uh-huh. I know all about that deal. And as attractive as it is . . .”

He laughed, then sobered. “All joking aside, yeah, the rule is: only girlfriends and wives on the back of the bike. But I’m not going to be a dick about it. If you want a ride—on the bike, nothing else—ask. Just promise never to tell anyone. Back to the wager, though, I totally would bet my bike, because I know, while it’s never a sure thing to bet against Gabriel’s capacity for duplicity, in this case I think he’s on the level.” He turned toward me. “I’m not saying to forgive him. Just don’t let your personal issues stop you from getting what you want professionally, or he’s done double the damage. It’s not an indentured servant contract. You lose nothing by giving it a shot. Think about it, okay?”

“I will.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On my way home, I called Rose and asked to speak to her. She was free at seven, and at 6:55 I was walking through her door.

“Okay,” I said as I pulled off my shoes. “I have a question that requires all your fortune-telling skills.”

“Excellent.” She ushered me into the parlor. “What is it?”

“Exactly how big an idiot am I if I agree to work for Gabriel?”

“I can tell you that without even checking the cards.”

“Let me guess. It will be the best decision I could possibly make, and I’ll never regret it.”

“Oh, no, I’m sure you’ll regret it. Many times. As I’m sure it’s not the best decision you’ll ever make. It will, however, rank near the top. He will make mistakes. So will you. There will be times when we’d best hope there are no firearms at hand. Ultimately, though, it is the first step on a life course that will make you happier and more satisfied than any other.”

“Uh-huh. I’d rather go with the cards.”

“Are you serious?” she said, sliding into her chair.

I slumped into mine and sighed. “As tempting as it is to ask for otherworldly reassurance, this is one mistake I need to make myself. I called him before I came over. I start work tomorrow. I may leave my gun at home. Just in case.” I straightened. “That’s settled. Now let’s head straight to the real reason I’m here. You don’t know Welsh, do you?”

“Welsh?”

“Yeah, it’s a long shot, I know.”

“Not so long. Walshes originally came from Wales—”

“—before moving to Ireland, where they got their name because it means Welshman. Well, the translation is ‘foreigner,’ but literally it means Welshman.”

“Very good.”

“About this question, though. I have a feeling it falls under the same very broad heading as omens, second sight, and fae.”

“Really?” She shifted, interest piqued. “What is it?”

“Cwn Annwn. Don’t ask me to spell it. From what I’ve learned of Welsh, you can probably count on it having no more than one vowel.”

“I suspect you’re right. I don’t recognize the word, but I’ll take a stab at the spelling and do some research.” She waved at the floor-to-ceiling wall of old books behind her. “If it’s in there, I’ll find it. You’re sure it’s Welsh?”

“No, but it’s a solid guess.”

“Where did you hear it?”

I told her the whole story of my meeting with the man at the charity dinner. When I finished, she sat there, speechless.

“I’d drank half a glass of champagne,” I said. “And taken no drugs that I’m aware of. Plus, he gave me this.” I laid the boar’s tusk on the table. “Which seems to prove I didn’t temporarily fall down the rabbit hole, as much as it seemed like it.”

“I don’t doubt you, Olivia. I’m just . . . I’ve heard of such things. Meetings . . .” She trailed off. “You say you smelled horses?”

I nodded. “I smelled forest, too, and I heard pounding hooves and baying hounds. I asked him if that”—I pointed at the tusk—“would protect me from the hounds. He said I didn’t need protection from them. He knew what I was talking about.”

“Horses. Hounds. Cwn Annwn.” She fell quiet, thinking.

“There was something about salt, too. I wouldn’t take the drink from him, and he said I was misapplying my folklore. That I only had to be worried if he offered me salt.”

“That’s a common motif in fae lore. Eat their food or drink their wine and you’ll never be able to leave.”

“That’s it,” I said. “He said taking a drink from him wouldn’t trap me.”

“Horses. Hounds. Forest. Salt.” She inhaled sharply. “The Hunt.”