Visions (Cainsville #2)(34)

“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.”

She leapt up so fast she startled me. Moments later she had a book in her hand, flipping through it as she came back to her chair. She set it in front of me.

I looked down at an old painting of wild-haired hunters on wild-eyed steeds, accompanied by fearsome black hounds. And boars. And ravens.

The hair on my neck prickled.

The heading on the facing page? Cwn Annwn. Literally, the hounds of the Otherworld. Better known as the Wild Hunt. They escorted the dead to the afterlife. According to the lore, if you heard the howling of the hounds, you would die.

“Um, not liking that part,” I said, pointing.

“It’s true, though. You will die. Someday. I can guarantee it.”

I gave her a look.

“Well, you heard the hounds baying last night, and you’re still alive, aren’t you? Did it sound soft or loud?”

“Soft.”

“They were close, then. That’s the lore—the louder they are, the farther they are.” She pulled out her chair and sat. “There are stories of the Wild Hunt from all across the British Isles and onto the Continent. Their appearance, their purpose, even their intentions—good, evil, indifferent—it all changes, depending on who you ask.” She closed the book. “I’ll compile what I can. I doubt we’ll determine their true purpose, but it can’t hurt.”

“Their true . . . ? You actually think I saw . . . ?”

“My great-grandmother told me she saw them once, around here. She was a teenager, sneaking off to meet a boy, and she heard the hounds. She ran, but it was too late. They rode right past her, men on flaming black steeds, wearing cloaks with hoods that hid their faces save for glowing red eyes. One of the riders slowed and called out in a terrible voice, telling her to stay out of the woods on the eve of St. Martin. She ran home and immediately gave all her prized possessions to family and friends, as she prepared for her death. She lived to ninety-seven.”

“Well, that part’s comforting. I’m not so sure about the flaming steeds.”

“I have a better account of her story written down here somewhere. I’d tell it to my babysitting charges when they wanted spooky tales. Seanna used to beg me for it. When Gabriel was born, everyone presumed she’d named him after the archangel. I knew better. There’s another name for the Wild Hunt: Gabriel’s Hounds.”

“Kinda thinking she’d have been better off naming him after the angel.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Archangel or hound from hell . . . with Gabriel, it depends on the day.”

“Not sure I see the angelic part.”

She took the last cookie from the plate. “He offered you the job of your dreams, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think angels are supposed to grant wishes.”

“They should. It would make them much more interesting.” She polished off the cookie and wiped away the crumbs. “Now, to bed with you. Put this aside for now.”