Betrayals (Cainsville Book 4) (38 page)

“I don’t under—”

“Just trust me,” he said, and rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him.

I
told Ricky the rest of the story, about Damara’s death. Something in it gave him an idea, which involved going to Ioan’s house. He didn’t tell the Cŵn Annwn leader we were coming, just pulled up at the gate. I swung off the bike, but before I could ring the buzzer, the gates opened, and l looked back to see Ioan pulling up behind us. He drove a Mercedes-Benz AMG, which looks like a damned ugly mini SUV best suited for grocery runs … and has over five hundred horses under the hood. All power. No show. I was impressed in spite of myself.

Ioan stopped just inside the gate and put down his window. Ricky opened his visor. “Just coming by to see the hound.” Ioan smiled. “She’ll like that. Have you chosen a name?”

“I’d rather use her real one.”

“I’ve been making inquiries, but as you know, we don’t have much contact with other Cŵn Annwn. They’re very unlikely to admit to having lost a hound. I’m hoping a third-party source may be able to supply rumors, but—”

“Slow and unreliable. I’m going to the source.”

The Huntsman frowned. “If you mean the hound, while I
still have hopes you can repair her psychic bond, that will likely take even longer than—”

“I may have a shortcut. Now …” He waved toward the house. “Onward?”

Ricky drove up the winding drive while Ioan looped around into the garage. As we waited at the door, Ioan walked up and took something from his pocket.

“This will make it easier,” he said, and handed Ricky a set of keys and a gate opener.

When Ricky hesitated, Ioan said, “So you can check on the hound whenever you want.”

Ricky took the keys and opener. It was, in a way, like me and the Carew house. This felt natural, and part of him longed to embrace it. He just knew—as I did—that every inch we moved in that direction made the fae and Cŵn Annwn a little too happy.

We went inside and paused in the front hall to take off our jackets.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Ioan said.

“Up to Liv.” He glanced at me. “You’re spending the night at the new house, right?” He turned back to Ioan before I could answer. “Liv is test-driving a house in Cainsville, for when her inheritance comes in. I think it’s a good idea. Put down roots.”

“I’m not sure Cainsville—” Ioan began.

“She was already living there. And the house has been in her family. It has … energy. The kind that’ll help her get a handle on her powers. That’s a good thing, right?”

He looked expectantly at Ioan, and I had to bite my cheek not to laugh. Rose’s cards showed Ricky evolving from page to king, and I saw that here. He’d given Ioan a gift, in taking the keys and opener. Now he was righting that imbalance by telling him about my house. Keeping Ioan from thinking he’d gained too much ground.

“Liv will be careful,” Ricky said. “The elders have promised to buy it back if she changes her mind.” He gave Ioan that much, watching as the Cŵn Annwn leader nodded, relieved. And then … “She’s staying there tonight, with Gabriel.”

Ioan tensed. “Gabriel?”

“The house triggers her visions, and he can manage them. In the long run, it’s better for her to have the visions so she can learn how to control them. But in the short term, they can be dangerous. I’ll be asking him to stay with her.” Ricky looked down the hall. “Is that the hound?”

When I strained, I caught the faintest whining. Then a tentative scratch at a door.

“She knows you’re here,” Ioan said.

“We’ll go see her, then.”

A
s
we approached the room, we could hear more quiet whines and tentative scratches. When Ricky pushed open the door, the hound backed away, her head lowered. Ricky dropped to one knee and rubbed her ears, crooning, and her tail banged against the floor loud enough to make the alpha hound—Brenin—look up from his spot on the sofa. He walked over and nudged the hound’s haunches, telling her to stand straight. When she did, he grunted in satisfaction and then looked at me and waited.

Brenin’s name means king, and he was not a beast one patted on the head or scratched behind the ears. Yet he did expect a token of recognition. I rubbed his neck, my fingers working through the thick, soft fur. Ricky did the same. Then Brenin snorted, as if to say,
Enough of that
, and left through a hatch. This was “his” room, complete with fireplace and furniture and that door hatch leading into the yard. Normally, the interior door would be open for him to wander the house, but the broken hound needed the sense of security that came with a more den-like environment.

“So you’re going to ask the hound her name?” I said as we moved into the room.

“Nope, you are.” He sat on the sofa. “Here’s the reasoning. You can pick up visions from objects, like Patrick’s books. And apparently from fae, like Damara. Yes, I know you’ll say Patrick’s books are made for that. With Damara, she may have actually passed you that vision. But you still have the receptors.”

“Not for hounds.”

“But I do. I channeled her. So my theory is that maybe together we can get more.” He glanced over. “Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were going to. You’d still do it, but only after a huge list of qualifications and warnings to cushion yourself against failure. Yes, I know there’s a very good chance this won’t work, and if it doesn’t, that’s no one’s fault. Trial and error is the only way we’ll figure out our abilities.”

“How do you want to start?”

“I’m going to talk to her.” He crouched in front of the hound, rubbing her ears and telling her what he planned to do. Whether she understood or not, the sound of his voice calmed her.

He lowered himself to the hardwood floor. The hound looked disconcerted at Ricky taking a lower position. When she rectified that by hunkering down, he tugged her closer. She stretched out, gingerly laying her head on his lap, tensed for the first sign of rejection. He put one hand on her head, and she settled in.

I took the spot on his other side, and he reached for my hand. Then he closed his eyes. After a few minutes of nothing but quiet breathing, Ricky let out a noise, like a whimper, and his body jerked. The sound of his breathing changed, syncopating with the hound’s as she twitched, her eyes closed.

I tightened my grip on Ricky’s hand, closed my own eyes, and focused.

It wasn’t a sudden drop into visions. I focused on the sound of his breathing and the scent of the hound. Then I smelled
forest and heard horses, the snort of
their
breathing and the clink of their bridles.

And then running. With the pack. The smell of our prey filled my nostrils, the pound of paws rang in my ears, the joy of the Hunt sang through my veins as the moonlight lit our path. The joy of the Hunt and the pack and a perfect night.

Then tumbling. Sudden tumbling through darkness. Through memory. From the best to the worst. To pain. Agonizing pain, ripping me inside and out, and I fought to escape, to flee some dark force I couldn’t see or hear, could only feel. I smelled blood. I heard yowls. My brothers and sisters. I had to save them, had to help them, but I couldn’t even save myself, until finally I was thrown free, as if jettisoned from nightmare itself, cast into darkness.

I awoke on the ground. When I lifted my head, I saw the mangled bodies of three other hounds. Two pack brothers and a sister. Torn almost beyond recognition.

“Fwnion!” a voice called, and I went still, waiting to hear that voice resonating in my head, to feel the bond with my Huntsman. But there was nothing except his audible voice, calling my name.

I cowered against the ground as I looked at my dead pack mates. I’d failed them. I’d survived when they had not. I must have escaped through cowardice. I must not have fought hard enough. Or long enough. I’d surrendered, and this was my punishment: that I could hear my Huntsman’s voice, but our bond was broken.

“Fwnion!” he shouted, desperation edging his voice, and I thought of him finding me here, with the corpses of my brothers and sister, and myself, broken and maimed but alive. Surviving when I ought to be dead. I did not want him to witness that.
I did not want to cause him pain or shame. So I pushed to my paws, and I dragged my broken body into the forest.

The scene flipped, and I was in another forest, ripping apart a rabbit. An old rabbit, stinking of waste and death even before I caught it, because with my broken body, this was the best I could hope for. A hound of the Otherworld reduced to near scavenging. The shame of that made me want to stop eating, to just waste away and die myself, but when I’d tried, I’d fallen into delirium and woken with a belly full of deer found dead by a roadside. I could not even manage death without succumbing to cowardice.

“I have something better for you,
cŵn
,” a voice whispered through the forest.

I went still and lifted my head, sniffing. It was the only reliable sense I had left. My injuries seemed to have healed, but oddly my hearing had gotten worse as they did. My one eye no longer showed more than shapes. But I could smell, and I recognized this scent.

The Huntsman.

Not
my
Huntsman. I dreamed of mine. Dreams where he’d scoop me up, as he had when I was a puppy and he’d taken me for his own. Dreams of him nursing me back to health, as he had when I’d injured my leg in a hunt. Most of all, though, I dreamed of forgiveness, of his hand on my head and his voice saying, “It’s all right, Fwnion. You’re home.”

But my Huntsman was long gone. I’d run so far I could never find my way back even if I wanted to. This one … this one had been tracking me for days. He was a loner, like myself. Tainted, like myself. I could smell that taint on him, and it made my hackles rise.

“There you are,” he said. “I brought you proper food,
cŵn
.”

He emptied a bag of fresh meat. Then he hunkered down and said, “You’re broken, aren’t you? Broken and cast from your pack. What did you do to deserve such a beating?”

I growled, offended at the idea that my pack or my Huntsman would have done this to me.

“I can help,” he said. “Some of those injuries haven’t healed well. I can fix that, and I can give you shelter and food, and all I ask in return is that you do your job—the job of a hound.”

I looked at him, at the madness roiling in his eyes. Madness and something twisted and ugly, and I started backing away, growling.

“Or we can do this your way,” he said, lunging, and a bag descended over my head.

The scene faded, replaced by flickering scenes, confusing scenes of hell and glimpses of something more, something better. The man healed my injuries as best he could. I walked easier. My hearing returned. Even my vision improved.

The Huntsman did as he promised. He provided care and shelter and food. But nothing more. No attention, no affection, and certainly no respect. I was like a dog to him. If I disobeyed, he punished me with a psychic pain that left me in agony. And so I learned to obey and eventually stopped trying to escape, because this was, I realized, what I deserved.
He
was what I deserved.

The flashing scenes slowed, and I was in his house. Indoors, which was rare. I had a run and a kennel in the back, like a common cur. But now he’d brought me in and given me clothing to sniff. A target, because without that psychic link, I was reduced to this, again like a dog. Sniff and find. Find and kill. Except … not this time.

“She isn’t your usual prey,” he said. “She hasn’t done anything to deserve death.”

My hackles rose, and I had to fight not to growl. Growling was rebellion. But this … this I could not do. He’d given me targets before, and I had looked into their eyes, and enough of my power remained that I could see their guilt. That allowed me to do my sacred duty and send them to the afterlife.

“You won’t be killing her,” he said. “Just find her and watch her. That’s all they want. Surveillance.”

I looked up into his eyes and knew he was lying. Not about killing her—he retained enough of his nature that, like me, he could not kill the innocent. Yet she would die at another’s hands.

He gave me the clothing to sniff again and then a photo of a woman.

It was Lucy Madole.

The visions faded into another montage of scenes passing too quickly to make sense. When I surfaced, I still gripped Ricky’s hand as he leaned against the couch, his eyes shut, lids flickering, still in the vision, his breathing matching the hound’s. Then he gasped, his head jerking up, eyes opening.

He ran his free hand through his hair, saying, “Fuck. That … Fuck.”

“What did you see?”

“Everything, I think. That wasn’t like … Fuck.”

“Are you okay?”

A wan smile. “Besides feeling like I was dropped a hit of LSD and plunged down the rabbit hole?”

I squeezed his hand and looked over at the hound, who seemed to be sleeping, her head on Ricky’s leg. The door opened, and Ioan popped his head through. When I motioned him inside, he entered carrying an antipasto platter.

“And that is exactly what I need,” Ricky said. “I feel like I just ran a marathon.”

A flicker of confusion crossed Ioan’s face, but he only said, “Good. Wine?” He glanced at Ricky. “Or would you prefer beer?” He made a face. “That was presumptuous, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Ricky said. “Wine is good. I won’t pretend I’m a connoisseur, though. I drink whatever Liv does.”

Ioan gave me a few choices. When I picked one, he left and returned a few minutes later to find us still sitting on the floor.

Ricky laid his hand on the hound’s head and that was all she needed to wake. She followed us into the next room. Brenin appeared as we were settling on a sofa and chair. He walked over, sniffing and nudging her. Then, satisfied, he lay by the fireplace.

“I suppose you want that turned on,” Ioan said.

Brenin just looked at him. Ioan sighed and started the fire.

“We got a vision from her,” I said.

That made Ioan stop and turn. “From the hound?”

“Her name is Fwnion.” I looked at her and smiled. “It means mild or gentle.”