Visions (Cainsville #2)(6)

“Saturday.”

I glanced at the papers. “So you’re . . . posting flyers? That’s certainly how it used to be done, but these days—”

“There are other methods,” Ida said. “We know. But the old ways are still useful.”

Veronica pushed the stack toward me. She said something else, but I was too busy staring at the photo on the flyer.

Ciara Conway was the dead woman I’d seen in the car.

“Liv?” Walter said.

“S-sorry.” I wrenched my gaze from the photo. “Sure, I’ll take some to the city. I’ll be there tomorrow, doing work for Gabriel. Just leave me a stack.”

I retreated as fast as I could. I took another table’s order, but after I’d finished, I stared at the words on my pad as if I’d written them in a foreign language.

“Olivia?” Ida said. “Are you all right, dear?”

I nodded. As I headed for the kitchen, Larry watched me, his wide face drawn with concern.

“Liv’s been investigating the deaths of young people,” Patrick said to the elders. “You don’t go shoving pictures of missing girls in her face.”

I said no, I was fine, but Larry took the order pad from my hand and told me to go home and take it easy. The lunch rush was over. He’d handle the rest of my shift.

Any other time, I’d have protested. But I kept seeing that smiling girl on the photo as an eyeless corpse.

“I’ll walk you home,” Patrick said. “You look a little woozy.”

“We were just heading that way,” Ida began. “We can—”

“Got it.” Patrick smiled at Ida. “Rest your old bones.”





BLACK SHUCK


If looks could kill, the one Ida aimed Patrick’s way would have drawn and quartered him. Which was far worse than the usual ones that only wished him a swift and relatively painless death.

Olivia’s long strides consumed the sidewalk, leaving him jogging to catch up. He wondered what was really bothering her. While he was certain her basement ordeal had been traumatic, resilience was in her blood. She should be over it by now.

When Olivia noticed he’d fallen behind, she slowed her pace. Together they passed through the tiny park and on to the walkway that led to her Rowan Street apartment.

“How’s Gabriel?” he said.

He hadn’t meant to ask. He would prefer not to, or if he did, he would like it to be a show of fake concern. He’d lived a very long time without taking any interest in his epil. Gabriel was different. Or perhaps Patrick was simply getting old. Soft.

“I heard he was injured in that business at the Evans house,” he continued.

“Shot in the leg.” The briefest pause. “He won’t use his cane. He’s going to make it worse.”

Patrick had to bite back a laugh at the way she said it. First she acknowledged he’d been shot, almost casually. Then she complained about the cane. Worried about Gabriel and loath to admit it.

After a few more steps, she asked, “What do you know about dogs? Symbolically, I mean. Folklore, occultism, whatever. From your writing research.”

“Any specific type of canine?”

“Big black ones.”

He tried not to react. Fortunately? she was still walking with her gaze straight ahead.

“Mmm, it depends on the culture,” he said. “If you’re looking at the British Isles—”

“Probably.”

“Black Shuck.”

Before he could explain, she nodded. “The Hound of the Baskervilles. I did my thesis on Conan Doyle. He based his book on the legend of the Black Shuck.”

“You didn’t need to ask me, then.”

She shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “It didn’t . . . It didn’t seem . . .”

It didn’t seem to fit. Because the Black Shuck was a portent of death, and she could interpret those instinctively. That was how her old blood manifested. If she’d seen a death omen, she wouldn’t have needed to consult him.

“Is there anything else in the lore?” she asked. “Besides the Black Shuck?”

“No,” he lied.

Patrick left Olivia at her building door. Grace was on the porch, and he knew better than to pass her. Before they parted, he tried to get Olivia to tell him why she was asking about the black dog. She wouldn’t.

Had she seen a Cwn? That seemed most likely. She’d spotted one in Chicago and realized it was no ordinary pet—and no ordinary omen.

If she had truly seen a Cwn, that meant . . . well, it meant trouble. For her. For Gabriel. For all of them.





CHAPTER FOUR


My landlord, Grace, sat in her usual place—a folding chair on the front stoop. She looked like one of the town’s many gargoyles, a wizened imp scowling at the world, daring it to cause trouble.

I said a quick hello as I reached for the doorknob.

“Scone?” she said.

“What?”

“You were at work, weren’t you? Where’s my scone?”

No, not an imp. A troll. A gray-haired lump of a snaggletoothed beast, guarding her gate, one gnarled hand raised for the toll.

“I forgot,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ll grab you two tomorrow. With coffee.”