Visions (Cainsville #2)(76)

“Is everything okay with you?” I asked as we broke for breath.

“Hell, yeah. I just wasn’t sure if it was too much—”

I cut him off with a kiss. “For the record, I will always let you know if it’s too much. I’m pretty sure I was the initiator there, and yes, I was following your lead, but I wouldn’t do that just to make you happy. I’m not that selfless.”

He smiled. “Okay. Thanks.”

A few moments curled up together, light kisses, postponing the inevitable trip back to the cabin. Then he said, “In the forest . . . Did you see . . . ?”

“I saw something.”

“Riders?”

I nodded.

“There’s a stable nearby,” he said. “I suppose that’s what it was, but . . .”

“But . . . ?”

He looked at me. “You promised not to mock, right?”

“Absolutely. And I meant it.”

He reclined with his arm still around me. I twisted and rested on his chest, my chin propped up.

“It was riders from the stable,” he said. “A midnight hunt. Logically, I know that. But when I was a kid, sometimes I’d hear the horses and the hounds, and I’d tell myself it was the Hunt.”

“The Hunt?”

“I mentioned that my nana used to tell me stories. She’s Irish, and she grew up with all that. I liked it, so she’d pass it on. Stories of fairy traps and enchantments. And the Wild Hunt.” He lifted his head. “Have you heard of it?”

I was glad for the darkness, hiding my expression. “I have. Phantom riders and hounds that hunt the living and send them to the afterlife. If you see the Wild Hunt, it’s a death omen.”

“Nana said you aren’t supposed to see them, but only because, if you do, they might be after you. They hunt evil. Spectral vigilantes. I like that version better.”

“Nice. You’ll have to tell me more of her stories.”

“Better yet, you could meet her.” He shifted, getting comfortable. “She’s off on some hiking tour in Peru for the next few weeks, but when she gets back, if you’d like to meet her . . .”

“I would.”

His arm tightened around me. “Good.”

“They’re your dad’s parents, I presume?”

“His mom. His father isn’t in the picture. Never was. He sent plenty of money, but there was no contact. That’s one reason my dad insisted on keeping me, and made sure my mother stayed in touch.”

“Wanting something better for you.”

“Yeah.” He shifted again and made a face, reaching under him.

“Yes, the ground is cold and rocky.”

“That’s not it. I’m lying on . . .” He pulled out the boar’s tusk. “Um, okay . . .”

“Actually, that’s mine. It must have fallen out of my jeans. Did I mention I wouldn’t tease you about your superstitions? I have my own. It’s a good luck charm.”

“Huh.” He turned it over in his hands. “I’d remember if I’d seen it before, but it looks familiar. A tooth of some kind?”

“Boar tusk—the tip of one.”

“Really? And the writing? What does it mean?”

“I have no idea. I had someone take a look, and she could only decipher enough to figure out it’s a protective amulet.”

He peered at the etched letters. “It’s old, whatever it is. Very cool. Especially this.” He ran his thumb over the entwined moon and sun. Then he touched the words under it. “You have no idea what this says?”

“Nope.”

“Huh. Well, as hard as I try not to be superstitious, I think you’re right. It’s good luck. You should keep it close.”

“I am.” I stuffed it into my jeans. “And I suppose I should put these back on so I don’t lose it, which probably means we should head back to the cabin. It is a little nippy out here.”

“We’ll head back, and I’ll get the fireplace roaring.”

—

Ricky was having a dream. A bad one. I woke when he kung-fu-chopped me in the neck.

I scrambled up, ready to fight whatever monster had attacked in the night, only to find Ricky tossing and turning, moaning softly. Sweat plastered his hair and soaked the pillow. I tugged the covers off, in case he was just overheated.

He mumbled something I couldn’t make out. He kept mumbling it, over and over. I rubbed his sweat-drenched back.

“Ricky?”

More mumbling. Then he shot up so fast he startled me.

“I know,” he said, grabbing for me. “I know it.”

His eyes were wild, those golden flecks I’d seen earlier glowing. He held my arm tight, gaze fixed on mine, sweat dripping from his face.

“I know it, Liv.”

“Okay.” I loosened his iron grip on my arm.

“Sorry, sorry.” He let go. “I know it.”

“All right,” I said. “What do you know?”

“The tusk. The writing. I know what it says. What it means.”

“Okay. What?”

His mouth opened. Panic flooded his eyes. “No,” he whispered. “No, no, no. I know. I know.”