“Brainwashed, you mean? Compelled to accept the unbelievable based on faith alone?” He peered at me. “You aren’t going to church, are you?”

I gave him a look.

“Religion exists to instill false security and blind faith,” he continued. “Yet it is imperfect. To accept the message, you must hear the message. You must ‘drink the Kool-Aid,’ so to speak. But how would that work on a practical level? Disseminate something in the air or water to keep people from asking questions about Cainsville? That’s science. Otherwise, if there is a message—or charm or compulsion—it would need to be delivered in person, repeatedly, to be maintained. Completely impractical.”

“So you’re saying it couldn’t happen.”

That maddening curve of his lips. I was clearly frustrated, and that amused him. What did he see when he looked at me? A child. I was sure of that. Like the Huntsman. Like Tristan.

They were one thing and we were another, and to them we were children. Adorable and entertaining toddlers, fumbling in the dark. Like Macy, when she’d gotten angry at the hospital. I bared my teeth and I hissed and I flashed my claws, and Patrick saw not a wildcat but a kitten. Adorable in her infinitely tiny fury.

“For the purposes of transmission, consider it a disease,” he said. “A condition. How does it pass from source to recipient?”

I shifted, not wanting to play his game but not wanting to walk away, either. “Methods of transmission . . . Air. Water. Direct contact. Consuming infected material.”

“None of the above.”

“Heredity?” I said. “Passed through the genes?”

“That would be a convenient method for an isolated little town.”

I opened my mouth to argue that I wasn’t from Cainsville. Neither was Gabriel. Except both of our families came from here.

He pushed to his feet. “And there ends tonight’s conversation. When you have more, ask me more. Until then, have a pleasant night, Olivia.”

He started to walk away.

“You lied about the hound,” I called after him.

He turned, brows arching, and a memory twitched, telling me—

I inhaled. I knew what it was telling me. And I pushed it aside. For now.

“The hound. I asked you about big black hounds, and you said the only folklore you knew of was the Black Shuck. You forgot Cwn Annwn.”

He tensed. I saw a flicker and . . . nothing. I saw nothing. But I sensed a reaction.

“The hounds of the Otherworld,” I said. “That’s what it means, literally. But not necessarily what it is, right? Cwn Annwn is the Wild Hunt. The hounds are only part of it. Like the horses. The real Cwn Annwn are the hunters.”

Patrick’s gaze bored into me, and again that look tweaked my memory. Again I knew why and ignored it for now.

“I met one,” I said. “A Huntsman, I think they’re called. He gave me this.” I opened my hand to show the boar’s tusk. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you can decipher what it says?”

After a long moment of silence, Patrick said, “I suppose this has to do with the boy.”

“Boy?”

“Young Mr. Gallagher.”

I fought to hide my confusion. “No. I was at dinner with James. The Huntsman lured me into the back hall.”

“James? Ah, yes, the former fiancé.” The grim intensity fell from Patrick’s face, the old amusement bouncing back. “So many men hovering about you, Liv. It’s hard to keep them straight. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Variety is the spice of life, they say. As for that”—he pointed to the tusk—“it’s a pretty bauble. Keep it with you, for now. Just don’t get too attached to it. Or to Mr. Gallagher.”

He turned to go.

“What does Ricky have to do with this?” I said, walking after him.

Again, he turned. “Nothing. Everything. It depends on the perspective. From his? Nothing, I’m sure. He knows nothing.”

“Like me,” I said, remembering Tristan’s words. “Like Gabriel. We’re pawns.”

“Only if you allow yourselves to be,” he said, and walked into the night.

—

I had the next day off at the diner, which meant a full day working for Gabriel. I was expected in by nine. Before I left, I got an e-mail from Howard asking me to call.

He had two items of business.

“Your mother is coming home,” he said.

“Great. Have her call me when she gets settled.”

“She’d like you to pick her up at the airport.”

“No.”

Silence. Apparently not the response he’d expected. “Your mother is looking forward to seeing you, Olivia, and you should make an effort to mend fences—”

“I didn’t break any fences. This isn’t me being petty, Howard. She doesn’t want me to meet her. She wants a chauffeur.”

“She could well afford to hire a car. She’d like you to pick her up. And she’d like you to stay at the house.”

“Until she finds a live-in housekeeper and chauffeur? Again, no.”

“If she wished that, I could hire them before she returns. What she wants is a reunion with her daughter. She’d like you to come home.”

Come home. There’d been a time when I longed for that. Now I couldn’t imagine it.

“If she wants me to meet her at the airport, she needs to call me. Herself. What else is there?”

“I have a package for you. From James. He doesn’t know your address, so he’s asked me to send it along.”

I stifled a sigh. Probably clothing I’d left at his place. At least he was accepting that it was over.

“Send it to Gabriel Walsh’s office,” I said.

A pause. “You’re still involved with Mr. Walsh?”

“I was never involved with Mr. Walsh. He’s representing Pamela. I’ll be at his office today. You can have someone run the parcel over.”

“Your mother will not be pleased when she hears of this continuing association.”

“I’ll be at his office for most of the day, and I’d appreciate receiving that package. Thank you for your time, Howard.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

I arrived at the office by eight thirty, with my drive-thru beverage tray. The boss was leaning over Lydia’s desk, palms on the top, his shadow engulfing her as she typed. For most people, this would be as discomforting as having a panther poised on the rock overhead as you cooked lunch. Lydia just typed away, talking as she did.