Deceptions: A Cainsville Novel (21 page)

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll never pester you to run with me.”

“I—”

“I get it,” she said, that wry smile touched with something like sadness.

And thus an opportunity evaporated again, as it often did, and he was left stuck between cursing himself for losing it and telling himself it was for the best.

“But the walk?” she said. “Are you up for that?”

He motioned for her to carry on past the apartment building. “We’ll walk.”

She smiled then, a real one. Someone else did, too—Grace, on her stoop, watching them with a smug look.

A
s we walked, I kept glancing at Gabriel. The quieter he was—and the faster he walked—the more I suspected he really would rather be resting at Rose’s.

“We can go back,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

We reached the park. It was empty, the swings twisting in the breeze. We both stopped near the fence, as if each was waiting to see if the other planned to go in or continue on. I broke the impasse by opening the gate and walking through.

We sat on the bench in silence. I wanted to explain
why
I’d been going to the Carew house. In talking to Ricky, I’d realized that I needed to get these damned visions over with. To see whatever I was supposed to see. Otherwise, we wouldn’t know enough context to figure out what had happened to James.

The problem was that the visions came with a price, and if I mentioned my plan to Gabriel, he’d snap and snarl and insist that I really didn’t need them, that I could just ask the elders or Patrick. I couldn’t, because everyone had an agenda and they’d slant the story to their advantage. So I was stuck.

I need these answers. I can’t help him without them.

The thought flitted through my mind . . . and then I was standing in a field. A perfect midsummer field, the grass long and sweet-smelling, tickling me in the breeze. A dragonfly landed on a stalk in front of me, its jeweled body glittering in the sun. I could hear the distant trill of a bird and the burble of a brook.

I knew what lay beyond that brook. The forest. Dark and shadowed, yet in its way as wonderful as the sunlit meadow—peaceful, shady, and cool. Two halves of the whole.

“Two halves of your whole,” said a voice beside me.

The little girl reached for the dragonfly, laughing as it zipped away. This is where I’d first seen the
bean nighe
, down by that stream. I’d been the girl, walking through the meadow to the forest. When I lifted my hand now, though, it was clearly mine.

I turned quickly. “Gabriel . . .”

“He’s fine. Would you rather try to talk him into returning to your house?”

“My house?”

The girl smiled. “Of course. It was built for you, long before you were born.”

I shook off the illogic of that. “But Gabriel—”

“You want the rest of the story. You can’t convince him to let you see it, and you wisely won’t attempt to without him, so this is the best answer. A blameless way to get what you want.”

“Except it’s not blameless, is it? You’re in my head. Meaning I called you up to get the rest of the story. Which is also in my head. Locked away.”

She grinned like a teacher with a slow pupil who has finally learned to read. “Clever girl. Yes, you have the memories. We all do. Now, do you want to finish Matilda’s story?”

Guilt flickered, but my answer came quickly. “Yes.”

“Good. You’ve seen how it ends, in fire and death. Now see how it begins.”

—

She pointed to a rise about twenty feet away. A boy shouted beyond it. Then a girl laughed. I crested the rise and saw them below. A girl with long, light brown hair sailing behind her as she ran from a blond boy. They were both no more than eight or nine. They tore through the meadow, the girl laughing as the boy tried to catch her. Then a blur shot from the forest. Another boy, dark-haired, riding a black horse. He raced up alongside the girl, leaned over so far I thought he’d fall, grabbed her arm, and swung her onto the horse. Then he tore off, laughing as the blond boy stopped and stared after them.

The girl clung to the horse, her hair whipping behind her, eyes narrowed in rapture as the horse galloped ever faster. They leapt over the stream, and the girl shrieked with delight. In the meadow, the sun itself seemed to dim as the fair-haired boy stood abandoned. Then they shot from the forest and tore back. The dark-haired rider launched from his horse and tackled the blond boy. The girl swung off, too, and moments later they were all walking through the forest, running, laughing, and playing.

“Matilda, Gwynn, and Arawn,” I said.

“This is how it begins. With two boys and a girl, back before Romans set their filthy boots on our shores. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn are the two sides of fae—light and dark. Light is not good nor dark evil.”

“Just two sides of the same coin. Or stone.”

She smiled. “Yes. Light and dark. Day and nig
ht. Meadow and forest. The living and the dead. The ties between the two were strong, and the ruling families were close. So, too, then, were the children of those kings. Gwynn and Arawn grew up together, along with a girl from the most respected family of
dyn hysbys
and
dynes hysbys
. Cunning men and women.”

“Which means witches and seers. That’s what Matilda was.”

“She was also Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn. Half of each. Both sides claimed her. She grew up with Gwynn and Arawn, separately in their lands, and together as three friends. Which is fine for children, but when a woman comes of age, things change . . .”

I heard a shout, but it was deeper, Matilda’s answering laugh more musical. Three horses shot from the forest, a coal-black stallion and a dappled mare leaping over the stream, their riders Arawn and Matilda, no longer children but perhaps seventeen, eighteen. They raced into the field.

Gwynn crossed the stream behind them on a white stallion. Then he climbed off and walked back to crouch and peer into the water. Matilda circled around. She swung off and went to kneel beside him. He pointed out something in the stream, and they talked, serious and intense, until he reached into the water, took out something, and laid it in her palm. Her hand closed over it, and when she looked at him, it was not the look a child gives a friend.

It’s you. It’s always been you.

Arawn rode back. Before he reached them, they climbed onto their horses, and the three took off across the meadow.

“And so there was a dilemma,” the little girl said. “One girl, two boys. The young men knew that if they vied for her hand, their friendship might not survive, and the ties between their kingdoms could weaken, as the boys turned to men and warriors, on the path to inheriting their respective crowns. So they made a pact that they would remain friends—all three of them. Neither would court Matilda. What the men forgot was that there was a third party in this arrangement, one they did not tell of it.”

I heard the shout again, and the laugh, and once more it was Gwynn and Matilda, in the meadow. They were older now, early twenties. Matilda had a basket, Gwynn a blanket. He laid it down and she set out a meal: cheese and bread and wine. She was leaning to pour his wine when he moved forward to take a piece of cheese, and they nearly collided. Matilda leaned forward, her face a few inches from his. Then she darted in and kissed him on the mouth before pulling back quickly, blushing. He froze there, touching his lips. Then, after a long, careful look around, he pulled her to him and kissed her again.

A
nd so Matilda made her choice,” the girl said. “And Gwynn broke his promise. He’d only agreed to it because he was certain he was no competition for the charming prince of the Cwn Annwn. The moment Matilda showed him otherwise, he forgot the pact. He courted her in secret and made her swear not to tell Arawn. The Cwn Annwn prince was busy with fractious matters of state, he said. They ought not to disturb or distract him. The truth was that Gwynn was convinced she also loved Arawn, that he’d only won her because Arawn had played by the rules.”

“Which wasn’t true,” I said. “She chose Gwynn. She loved Arawn as a friend.”

“Gwynn never could—never would—believe it. He kept their engagement a secret until two nights before the wedding.”

The sun went out, pitching the field into darkness. I heard voices, angry voices, speaking Welsh. Arawn and Gwynn, the venom in their words growing stronger with each exchange.

The girl said, “They were young—Arawn hot-tempered and impulsive, Gwynn intense and unbending. That night, both said things they didn’t mean. Eventually, they came to an agreement. A terrible agreement. One they didn’t—again—share with Matilda. She would get one last chance to choose. On the eve of her wedding, if she stayed with Gwynn, then she was his and the land of the Cwn Annwn was closed to her forever.”

“And if she went to Arawn, she was his and the land of the Tylwyth Teg would close.”

As soon as I said it, the dark field erupted in flame, and I quickly turned away, wrapping my arms around myself and trying not to remember what it felt like to be immersed by that flame, plunging into it, trying to return to Gwynn. I could hear Arawn shouting, so loud his voice cracked.

“He couldn’t save her,” the little girl said. “Neither of them could, each on his side. In trying to return to Gwynn, Matilda plunged into the fiery abyss and was lost. They never forgave themselves . . . or each other. Those flames of rage and guilt burned through every tie between the Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn. Late in life, the two kings came to fully understand the damage they’d done to their peoples, and they reconciled. While they managed to bring an uneasy peace to their lands, it was not the same. It would never be the same.”

“And now they’re enemies again? The two sides?”

She pursed her lips. “Not enemies. They have been known to help one another, but it is not so much kindness as survival. There are other groups of fae. Some are allies, others are not. The Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn will help one another to stand against them, but their ultimate goal is freedom from that obligation—to stand strong enough that they do not require the other’s help.”

“And I play a role in that because I’m the new Mallt-y-Nos. The new Matilda. Or something like that.”

She smiled. “Yes, something like that. The cycle repeats. New Matildas are born. Not often. Not at all often. She must share the blood of the original, and she must be, like the original, of both sides.”

“Half . . . ? If Pamela is Tylwyth Teg, then Todd is . . . ?”

“Cwn Annwn. That is, they have the blood. Strong blood, mingled many times, from many sources, one path linking back to the family of the original Matilda.”

“Okay, so a new Matilda is born, and she meets the new Gwynn, presumably from the same bloodline as the original . . .”

“She may not meet him. I never did.”

“But the
goal
is for her to meet the new Gwynn?”

“Or the new Arawn, preferably one or the other, the choice dependent on the side.”

I shook my head. “Okay, you lost me.”

“For the Tylwyth Teg, the goal is for a new Matilda to meet her Gwynn, but not her Arawn, because that restarts the original scenario. Likewise for the Cwn Annwn.”

“So she meets one and . . . There are babies involved here, aren’t there?”

She laughed. “Only if you want them, which I think you do not. No, the only requirement is the bond. Of course, the stronger the bond, the more likely they can woo the girl to their side, so they would not object to babies.”

“Well, they aren’t getting them. If Gabriel is the new Gwynn, and we’re friends, that’s it, then, right? The bond is there. My mission accomplished.”

“There’s more to it than that—the fate that awaits the Tylwyth Teg if you don’t actually choose them.”

She settled onto the ground as the sun rose again. I sat in front of her.

“Fate?”

“Extinction.”

“You mean . . . wiped out?”

“For this settlement, yes. It happens. Nothing lasts forever. There are other Tylwyth Teg and Cwn Annwn, other groups. Fewer and fewer. Our time is past, yet we are stubborn. But what keeps fae alive is limited, and it dwindles as the world is consumed by what passes for progress.”

“And what keeps fae alive? Wait. Ley lines, correct? Cainsville is built on a ley line.”

She laughed, the sound tinkling. “Ley lines are a human invention. What sustains us are three of the four elements. Air, water, earth. The other—fire—kills. But the first three keep us alive, so long as they are pure and untainted. Tell me, what is a ley line?”

“A geographical alignment. Streams combining with mountain ridges and such.”

“In broader terms, then, it is a mixing of elements, such as water and rock. Humans had an inkling of the truth there, though they overcomplicated the matter. For fae, the ideal habitat is one that combines as many elements of nature as possible. Rock, rich earth, water, forest, meadow . . .”

“Like Cainsville,” I said. “Bounded on one side by river, another by marsh, the third by rocky ground. Surrounded by field and forest. The Cwn Annwn use that forest, other forests, too. They’re more nomadic. Less bound to territory. Still, both govern land valuable to other fae. And as remaining woodlands are developed, Cainsville becomes
more
valuable, and threats emerge.”

“They do. Even as we speak. Those others grow bolder, knowing you’re here. Yet even here, the land dies. It cannot avoid contamination—air, earth, and water. You can cleanse and renew it, and give them the power to resist those threats.”

“Hopefully not with my blood, scattered over the land.”

“Nothing so drastic. You cleanse the land of Cainsville by living on it. You would cleanse the lands of the Cwn Annwn by riding with them.”

“How about the Persephone solution? Not that I’m volunteering . . .”

“Neither will accept that, because it dilutes your power and they both want it all. They will insist you choose.”

“Framing Gabriel for James’s murder is part of this, isn’t it?”

“Presumably, yes, but do not ask me to name the murderer or the motive. I know only what you do.”

“I’m guessing it was the Cwn Annwn. Moving the Tylwyth Teg’s champion off the field to make room for their own. To ensure I meet Arawn—his representative, right?”

A giggle rocked her whole body. “That is a silly question, and you know it. The cycle is already repeating, and the longer you pretend you don’t know who Arawn is . . .”

“Ricky.” I forced his name out on a sudden exhalation of breath, as if I might not let it escape otherwise. “It’s Ricky, isn’t it? The Hunt. That’s why he hears it. Why he’s drawn to it. He’s . . .”

“Cwn Annwn. Motorcycles instead of steeds. The joy of the ride, of the hunt. You feel it, too.”

Fast cars. Fast bikes. The way I craved speed, that unbelievable adrenaline rush.

I always had.

“He doesn’t know,” I said. “He can’t know. And his father . . . his father isn’t a Huntsman. Is it his mother? Is that possible? No.” The answer came quickly. “It’s Don Gallagher’s father. He was never in the picture, and that’s why. Don is the son of a Huntsman. Ricky is a grandson.”

I took shallow breaths, struggling to orient myself. The girl stayed silent, watching me with a look between sympathy and pity.

I’d known. Somehow, deep inside, I’d known.

Known and feared.

I don’t want this. I don’t want him touched by this. It’s not fair.

Not fair to him, to be sure. But also, if I admitted it, not fair to me. Ricky was my one good and pure thing right now. Even telling him about Cainsville and the omens had been difficult, as if it tainted what we had with the madness that was my life these days.

Matilda. Gwynn. Arawn. The cycle repeating.

“Is it fated, then?” I asked. “Us?”

“You mean does Ricky love you because he has to? No. It’s not fated that you’ll meet. It’s not fated that you’ll feel the same. You aren’t truly Matilda. They aren’t truly Arawn and Gwynn. The cycle isn’t set. It shifts and it changes. You could choose Arawn this time. You could choose Gwynn again. You could choose . . . and they might not reciprocate. Nothing is decided.”

“And which is the best solution?”

She lifted her thin shoulders. “Who knows? It’s never happened. Now, you need to go.”

“I have more—”

“You aren’t worried about
him
anymore?” I followed her gaze. The meadow faded into the Cainsville park. I saw myself on the bench, sweat pouring down my face, soaking my shirt as I stared glassy-eyed. Gabriel crouched in front of me, his hands on my shoulders.

When I squeezed my eyes shut, I could hear his voice, feel his touch.

“Olivia. Damn it,
Olivia
.”

My eyes snapped open.