Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (30 page)

“You never told us how exactly you got here,” I said to Gabriel. “My text only mentioned we were heading into a forest south of the city.”

“I looked around and saw the bike and the riders.”

“In the entire south-of-Chicago region, you just happened to glance across a dark field and see guys on black horses?”

His brow furrowed as he wondered why I was bringing this up. Then he caught Ioan’s look, the flashed annoyance of a doting grandfather bragging about his boy’s field pass only to watch his competition score a touchdown. Gabriel gave me a look, as if to say that my efforts were too awkward by far.

Ioan cleared his throat. “So the hound trusts Ricky?”

“It does,” I said. “It couldn’t seem to help going after Ciro when he ran.”

“That instinct is compulsory, no matter how damaged the creature might be.”

“Ciro knew that. Which is why he ran. Death by fae hound.”

“Hmm.” Ioan tugged my elbow, steering me around a rabbit hole without even seeming to glance at the ground. “About the hound. Ricky should take it. It obviously trusts him and—”

“No.”

“It would be easier, particularly for the hound. If the beast has overcome a learned fear of Cŵn Annwn to trust Ricky, that speaks to an incredible bond, and its rehabilitation would be best facilitated—”

“Ricky lives part-time with his dad, part-time in a student apartment, and part-time at my Cainsville apartment. Two of those places are not hound-friendly. He drives a Harley. Also not hound-friendly. He goes to college and works for a motorcycle club. His
life
is not hound-friendly. If you suggest the
cŵn
needs him, he’ll feel guilty, and he doesn’t deserve to feel guilty. Worse, he’ll feel pressured. You don’t want him to feel pressured.” I turned to Gabriel. “Hey, did I mention that Ida wants to give you a house in Cainsville? She says it’s time for you to move in.”

“What?”

I turned to Ioan and waved my hand at Gabriel. “See that expression? It’s the same look of horror you’ll get if you mention Ricky taking the hound. Like offering an engagement ring on a first date.”

Ioan rolled his eyes at my dramatics, but after a moment he said, “We will care for the hound, but it may require help from Ricky.”

“Which he will give. Just … for your own sake, take it slow.”

I’d hoped, when Ioan saw the hound, he’d be able to mind-meld or whatever and get its story. But the link had been truly severed. He suspected it had suffered some trauma and the lone Huntsman took advantage of that.

“He
did not do this,” Ioan said as he examined the hound’s long-healed injuries. “The hound would never have stayed with him if he did. Something happened to this poor beast. She was
orphaned from her pack. He took her, and he did not treat her well, but …”

He hunkered back on his heels, rubbing the beast’s ears. She—the hound was apparently female—kept giving him sidelong looks, uncertain, not ready to commit to eye contact.

“The damage he did seems disrespect rather than abuse,” he said. “A hound is our companion, not our slave.”

“And he enslaved this one,” I said. “He treated her as a dog, which damaged her further.”

Ioan nodded, rose, and turned to Ricky. “I would like you to help us bring her to my house. I’ll keep her there. The pack alpha stays with me, and she’ll be comfortable with him.”

“Wouldn’t she be
more
comfortable with a hound lower in the hierarchy?” I asked.

“The alpha would never mistreat her, and the hound will take comfort in his attention. Once Brenin accepts her, the other hounds will.” He paused and couldn’t help looking at Ricky and saying, “Unless you have a better idea …”

“Nope. I’ll do what I can, but I’m definitely not in the market for a hound.”

I had to bite my cheek at that.

Ricky turned to me. “The Cŵn Annwn will take care of Ciro’s body. I’m handling the hound. You have to get rid of those clothes. And you and Gabriel need to talk about what Ciro said. I’ll catch up once the hound is situated.”

“Actually,” Ioan said, “Liv should accompany you. The hound obviously trusts her as well.”

“No,” Ricky said. “She should go with Gabriel.”

Ioan’s lips tightened, but Ricky only walked over and gave me a hug before we left.

W
e
stopped at Ricky’s place. I kept extra clothes there, so Gabriel had me shower and change and then he disposed of what I’d been wearing.

An hour later, we were in Gabriel’s apartment. He poured us both a Scotch and we settled on the sofa, which we’d moved in front of the window.

“You should leave it here,” I said. “I know an interior designer would have a fit …”

“Yes, that was my concern. That I’d horrify all the interior designers I invite up here.”

I smiled and tucked my feet up under me as I sat sideways on the sofa. He attempted to get comfortable, which for Gabriel meant facing forward and slouching an entire quarter of an inch.

“You need a bigger couch.”

“I don’t believe they come much bigger. Not if they’ll fit through my door.”

“Get one with two recliners. Then we can sit and stretch out and … talk to the window. Huh. I don’t suppose they come with the recliners on an angle, so we can partially face each other while still looking out the window.”

“I believe they would call that two separate recliners. Which can be placed at any angle you desire.”

I made a face. “I want a sofa.”

“I will refrain from pointing out that it’s actually my apartment.”

“Oh, I know, how about one of those big circular ones? It’s very seventies, but it looks comfortable. And if I doze off, you can just leave me there.”

“I already do that. On this couch.”

“Which
isn’t
uncomfortable.”

“There’s also the floor.”

I slid down to it. “Not bad.”

“I meant for sleeping.”

I pulled down two pillows, arranged them on the floor, and settled in. Gabriel gave a deep sigh, and lowered himself beside me.

“Okay, this works,” I said. “Now what you need is a fireplace.”

He laughed. A deep laugh that echoed through the room, and it was wonderful to hear, and I curled up, feeling the warmth of it, like hot cocoa on a cold day.

“Right there.” I pointed in front of us. “But it has to be really low to the floor, so it doesn’t interfere with the view. Nothing can interfere with the view.”

“Of course.”

“And just think, I haven’t even
started
drinking yet.”

He smiled at me, a smile as real as his laugh. His unabashed I-forgot-I’m-not-supposed-to-do-this smile, the one I usually only got after he’d had a glass of wine, the one that fades his eyes to the warmest blue imaginable. Winning that smile is like acing my SATs and running a marathon all in the same day.

I sipped my Scotch, and he did the same, and we sat, staring out the window and drinking, letting the night settle on us,
until the alcohol worked its way into my system, tugging my mood down just enough that I said, “I shouldn’t be joking around tonight, should I?”

“Hmm?”

“After what happened. With Ciro. I shouldn’t joke and goof off.”

“If you’re feeling bad about not feeling bad
enough
, I do believe you’re talking to the wrong person.”

“What do you fee—?” I cut myself off sharply and put my glass down with a click against the hardwood. “Sorry. That was rude. I’ll blame the booze and apologize.”

“No need. It is, I realize, considered a nonintrusive question from a friend.” He eased back against the sofa, long legs stretching, and then looked my way, his head reclining against the cushions, eyes bright. “I understand concepts even if I don’t embrace them.”

I nodded and sipped my drink.

“As for any concern over your reaction to Ciro Halloran’s death, it is, I believe, invalid. I would say ‘ludicrous,’ but I suspect
that
would be rude.”

“You just said it.”

“With a somewhat sincere disclaimer attached. The point is that I know you worry about your lack of altruism. Which is ridiculous. You’re not investigating the lamiae murders for personal profit. You aren’t concerned about the disappearance of Aunika Madole because she owes you money. You didn’t try to save Ciro Halloran from the hound because there was a reward in it. As for trying to save him at all, I would like to think it was a spontaneous impulse and that you would not have put yourself in danger for him if you’d considered the matter. But that is, in part, a projection of my own feelings—I don’t want to see you take risks for strangers.”

“But it’s true, too,” I said. “If I’d thought it through, given what he’d done … I might not have.”

“Good. That’s what I want to hear. However, it’s not entirely true, because in the moment that you took to decide whether to give chase, you would have realized you wanted him alive for questioning and taken the risk for
that
reason. If you really
did
only want to save Ciro out of the goodness of your heart? I could not comprehend that.”

He took another, longer drink and then said, “You asked what I feel. The answer is nothing. That is, I hurry to qualify, on this particular topic. The face that I present is not a false face, but I am capable of emotion.”

“I know.”

He nodded, not looking over. “The truth is that, in the matter of the lamiae, when I said that I wanted to get them into Cainsville so they’d be out of our way, that wasn’t me putting a logical slant on the matter. That
is
me. It’s what I feel. Or do not feel, as the case may be.”

Another sip of the Scotch, his gaze still on the window. “People wonder how I represent the clients I do. Do I not feel empathy for the victims and their families? No, I don’t. I
think
about them, though. I think that their loss is a tragedy, and I think of how their lives were affected, and I think that what happened to them was unfair. But the world does not promise fair, and if my client is indeed guilty, then let the court decide that. Perhaps the greater sin is that I realize I feel nothing for strangers, and I still do not care.”

I was formulating an answer, desperately searching for the right words, when he downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, shut his eyes for a moment, and then opened them and said, still facing forward, “Does that bother you?”

“Hmm?”

He looked my way, yet not directly at me. “Does it bother you that I cannot look at those lamiae and take pity?”

“I have spent enough time with you, Gabriel, to understand what you are and what you aren’t, and if I had a problem with that, you’d know it.”

It seemed an honest and positive answer, but his gaze slid away, and he lifted the empty glass to his lips, and when he realized it was empty and I said, “More?” he shook his head, but there was a hesitation there.

“I’m having more,” I said, and poured myself a finger and took the bottle over to him, and he didn’t hesitate to lift his glass.

When I sat again, he said, “My lack of caring doesn’t apply to you. I hope you understand that.”

“I know.” I pulled my knees up as I turned to face him. “For me, it’s a stretch to feel what others do naturally. Like with Ciro. I wanted to stop the hound from killing him, but then I was back here, joking around, and I had to stop and think, ‘Oh, right, I watched a guy die tonight.’ So I do understand, and I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear.”

“It was.” He sipped at his drink. “But you said you understand what I am not. You accept it.” His gaze lifted to mine. “You don’t need to accept it.” He lowered the glass. “I don’t mean the lack of altruism. That won’t change. But there are other things you don’t have to accept. You don’t need to apologize for asking me how I felt earlier. You don’t need to avoid displaying emotional pain around me. Yes, I am uncomfortable with that. Yes, when you do it, I have the urge to run, as fast as I can. But not because I don’t
want
to help. Because I don’t know how.” His eyes widened, and he murmured a rare curse. “And with that, I have definitely had too much to drink. I’m sorry. I don’t—”

“It’s okay.”

“I just—”

“Gabriel?” I leaned toward him. “It’s okay. I know you don’t like to admit anything like that.” I lowered my voice to a mock whisper. “But it’s not inappropriate, and I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

He hesitated. Then he snorted a laugh. “Yes. Sorry.” He sipped the Scotch. “What I’m saying is that I know sometimes you feel you’re walking on eggshells with me. I’ve made you feel that way. But that is my inexperience with a relationship that is neither familial nor business in nature. I make mistakes.” Another quick drink. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I just want to say that you can expect better. I am past the point where I’m going to bolt and slam the door behind me.” He glanced around. “Which is good, considering it’s my apartment.”

“Mmm, no. If you bolt, I get the condo. That’s the deal.”

A faint smile. “Is it?”

“Yep. You need stakes. Run away from me and you lose your apartment.”

He glanced my way. “I don’t need stakes to stop me from doing that. Losing you would be—” He stopped, horror filling his eyes, and he drained the rest of the glass as fast as he could.

“The floor is not comfortable.”

“What?” he said, looking up sharply.

“I’m changing the subject before you really do bolt. Because, as much as I love your apartment, I’d rather keep you.” I lifted my glass. “And thus ends our drunken sentimental exchange. So, the floor …”

“… is uncomfortable, and I would agree. I would also agree that I require comfortable permanent seating to take full advantage of the window view. Which I did intend to buy. I never got as far as walking into a furniture store. Once I was moved in, new furniture seemed …”

“Frivolous?”

“Exactly.”

“I would point out that, given that no one actually comes here, the only person to judge you for such frivolity is yourself, but I know that’s the opinion that counts. We will get you proper window-side seating.”

His lips twitched in a smile. “And a fireplace?”

“Yes.” I turned toward him. “On that topic, since I’ve passed the slightly drunk stage—and since you’ve given me permission to push—I’m going to ask a personal question.”