Gifted: A Holiday Anthology (3 page)

“This is my baby,” she said, and Gabriel realized they weren’t alone. A man walked from the kitchen. Maybe thirty, with the bulky build of a construction worker. He had a beer can in one hand and that same film over his eyes. New to the drug. New to the life. His mother knew her marks well.

“Isn’t my boy a cutie?” she said.

“He has weird eyes,” the man said.

Seanna punched his arm. “Don’t be mean. He has beautiful eyes. And he’s smart, too. Smartest kid in his class.”

“Must take after his daddy.”

Seanna spun on the man. “Now
that’s
mean. You’d better watch yourself, or you’ll be sleeping on the street tonight.” She turned to Gabriel. “Can you go get us some burgers, sweetie?”

He nodded and put out his hand. Seanna looked at the man and waited until he passed over a ten.

“That won’t feed Gabriel, too,” she said. “He’s a big boy. Only ten, and look how big he is already. He eats more than I do.” She leaned over to whisper. “And the more he eats, the better he sleeps.”

The man exchanged the ten for a twenty. “Get yourself something good, kid.”

Behind the man’s back, Seanna raised two fingers. Two dollars. That’s what he was allowed to take for his meal. The rest of the change went to her.

Gabriel pocketed the money and headed out.

In Cainsville, Solstice was indeed bigger than Christmas. In first grade, Gabriel’s teacher had asked his favorite holiday, and that’s what he’d said. She’d looked at him blankly. He’d repeated his answer and explained it—longest night of the year, the basis for Christmas, with feasting, exchange of gifts and all that. The next day, she’d taken him aside for a “chat” about Jesus and how he’d given his life for Gabriel’s sins, and that was the proper celebration of Christmas. Gabriel had corrected her, as politely as possible. Easter was the holiday recognizing the death of Christ, and, while he understood the concept, he thought it rather presumptive to die for strangers. One of the younger teachers had overheard the conversation and reported it, and, ultimately, his teacher had to take him aside and apologize for questioning his religious beliefs. He’d accepted the apology, though he hadn’t understood it, not until he was old enough to realize Solstice was considered a Pagan festival. In Cainsville, it had nothing to do with religion. It was a celebration of winter. Nothing more.

The festivities began at sundown. Rose took him down to Main Street, which had been blocked off all day to prepare. Bonfires dotted the road, with a huge one in the middle. Candles covered every surface. Gifts were placed on tables according to age. They were unmarked, suitable for anyone of that age. Children had to bring one for the age group below theirs. Gabriel had brought two books:
The Phantom Tollbooth
and
A Wrinkle in Time
. Both came from the used-book store, but neither looked as if anyone had cracked open its cover, so they could pass as new.

On arrival, every child was given a suet ball and had to find a place to hang it to help the birds through winter. They also got an orange, to represent the sun, and mulled cider, to keep them warm as they hunted for a suitable hanging spot. When they returned, Main Street was filled with tables and tables of food. Afterward, there would be caroling. And, of course, mistletoe, strategically hung for kissing. Gabriel avoided both by helping clear the food away. The night ended with stories and the burning of the Yule log. And that was when Gabriel’s night truly began—hunting for the last gargoyle, because he was certain the man had given him a hint. The final gargoyle would appear on the most important night of the year. The longest night of the year.

And it did. In fact, it was rather hard to miss, if you went looking. After the festivities, though, everyone headed home, leaving the streets bare, the bonfires smoldering. That’s when Gabriel found the gargoyle, in the most obvious place of all. Right in the middle of Main Street. Town Hall. On the bell tower.

Gabriel stood below the gargoyle as it leaned down from the tower, its twisted face grinning at him as if to say, “Found me!” He looked up through the falling snow and let out a low chuckle that reverberated through the silent street.

“Fitting, isn’t it?” said a voice behind him. It was the man, snow crunching under his shoes. Gabriel didn’t turn, just kept staring at the gargoyle.

“The bell tower?” the man prompted.

“
The Hunchback of Notre-Dame
,” Gabriel said.

“Very good. You do like stories then, even if you don’t write any in that journal I gave you.”

“I read the comic book.”

The man’s laugh rang through the night. “Liar.”

Gabriel smiled and shrugged. Then, he made the appropriate notes in his book, giving the exact location and describing the gargoyle, as was needed to claim his victory.

“You did it,” the man said as he walked up beside Gabriel.

“Yes, I did.”

“You know what the prize is, don’t you?”

Gabriel let out a soft sigh.

The man laughed again. “Not as keen on that part, are you?”

“Can I skip it?”

“Nope. You find all the gargoyles, and the town gets a new one, modeled after you.”

Gabriel made a face.

“Victory comes with a price,” the man said. “You’ll survive this one.” He looked down at Gabriel. “I’m proud of you. You know that, don’t you, Gabriel?”

It seemed an odd thing to say, but Gabriel only murmured, “Thank you.”

“Did you get a good present at the festival?”

Gabriel held up a train set.

“Ah,” the man said. “Not exactly your style, is it? How about I take that and give you something better. An exchange.”

Gabriel hesitated. The gift, while unwanted, had been given with good intentions, and it seemed insulting to refuse it. Before he could answer, though, the man plucked the box from his hand.

“Happy Solstice, Gabriel,” he said as he walked away, the train set tucked under one arm. “And you’re welcome.”

Gabriel watched him go, frowning in some confusion. Then, as he turned, he saw the gargoyle again, and he nodded.
That
was the gift—the hint about Solstice. Fair enough.

He tried to put his notebook into his pocket, but it wouldn’t fit. Something else was in there. Gabriel reached in and felt a box. He pulled it out.

It was the cards. The Victorian tarot for Rose.

Gabriel turned back toward the man to call out his thanks. But the street was empty. He pocketed the cards, smiled and headed back to give Rose her present.

Looking for more Gabriel Walsh? He’s a major character in the Cainsville series, starting with
Omens
. Twenty years after
Gabriel’s Gargoyles
, he’s one of Chicago’s most notorious defense attorneys. He’s also exactly the guy Olivia Taylor-Jones needs to help her solve the murders her parents were convicted of twenty-two years ago.

On the next page, you’ll find an excerpt from
Omens
—the scene where Olivia first meets Gabriel.

For more details, check out my website at
KelleyArmstrong.com

Excerpt from
Omens

I couldn’t shake that sense of something creeping along behind me. Finally I spun. There was something there—a black shape crouched on the fence of the now-distant park. A chill crept up my spine and I squinted. The shape lengthened, stretching until it became the black cat, languidly arching its back, then settling in on the fence post to watch me.

The urge to run tingled down my legs. Instead, I forced myself back toward the cat. It just sat there, watching me.

“If you’re looking for handouts, this”—I waggled Grace’s bag—“is not kitty food.”

The cat yawned and stretched again before settling back on its perch. Something passed overhead and the cat sprang up so fast I stumbled back. It gave me a scornful glare, then looked up into the sky. I followed its gaze to see what looked like a crow, soaring high overhead.

“A little out of your reach,” I said to the cat.

It ignored me, tail puffed, yellow eyes following the distant bird.

“Great,” I muttered. “Just great.” I shook my finger at the cat. “You guys really
are
bad luck.”

The clouds overhead shifted, sunlight coming through again. As I headed back to the pathway, I glanced over my shoulder once, but the cat hadn’t moved. It just kept staring at that crow, as if hoping it would come lower. If it did, the cat would be in for a surprise. The bird was probably as big as it was.

When I was about halfway down the path, I could make out the Victorian house across the road, the one with the psychic in residence. Again, I saw a face in a window. And two black circles. Binoculars. They pulled back and I smiled to myself. Psychic, my ass. In a town this small, all you needed to pull off that gig was the gift of nosiness.

A cloud moved across the sun again and I looked up. Maybe it would rain after all. That might establish
me
as a psychic. Look out, lady—

A throat-clearing. And as my gaze dropped from the sky, I realized it wasn’t a cloud blocking the sun at all. There was a man barely a yard away.

“Ms. Taylor-Jones?”

The first thing I saw was his suit. It was a good one. Excellent, in fact. Worth more than some of the cars parked along the road behind him. I thought,
James has hired someone to find me.

There was a reason the guy seemed to block the sun. He had to be at least six foot four with shoulders so wide I had to bump up my estimate of the suit’s worth. Nothing off the rack would fit him.

Whoever sprang for a fancy suit, hoping to make him look less intimidating, had wasted his money. One look and you knew exactly what he was—a high-class thug. Property of a very wealthy man. This wasn’t the sort of person James would send. Not unless he wanted me running the other way.

My gaze went to his eyes. Instinct, honed by my dad.
Look strangers in the eyes right away, Livy. That’s the only way to get a good read on them.
Usually a good rule. Except when the stranger was wearing shades so dark I couldn’t see through them.

The man took a long step backward and the corners of his mouth twitched.

“Is that better?” he said, his voice deep, tone amused. “You look ready to scamper back down the path. Not what I’d expect from the daughter of Pamela Larsen.” Before I could react he pulled a card from his inside pocket and presented it with a mock flourish. I glanced at it, noting only his name—Gabriel Walsh—a Chicago address and the words “Law Firm.”

Not a thug, then. An investigator . . . probably with a little thug thrown in, for getting information people didn’t care to give.

“You work for a lawyer,” I said. When one brow arched, I continued, “Whatever your boss—”

“I don’t have a boss, Ms. Jones.”

He reached out, and I struggled against the urge to move back. He tapped the card with one huge but perfectly manicured fingernail.

I read it again. Gabriel Walsh. Attorney-at-law.

“Oh,” I said.

“A common mistake. I represented your mother. The biological one.”

I glanced up sharply. “You were—?”

“Not her original lawyer, of course.” He wasn’t old enough for that. “I represented Pamela Larsen in her most recent appeal attempt. Lost, unfortunately.”

“I wouldn’t say that’s unfortunate at all.”

His only response was an oddly elegant shrug.

“I suppose she sent you,” I said. “That heartrending jailhouse plea to see her only child? You can tell her—”

“I said I represented her, past tense. She fired me when our request for an appeal was denied.”

“And now you want to get her back.”

“No, I was fired only because she didn’t give me time to quit.”

“I really do need to be going,” I said as I hefted my paper bag. “If you’ll excuse—”

“I’ve come with a business proposition.” He turned toward Rowan Street. “There’s a coffee shop down the road. The food isn’t as good as the diner’s, but it’s quieter.”

He knew Cainsville? I checked the card again. The office address was definitely Chicago.

“How did you find me?” I said.

“I had a tip.” He waved toward the psychic’s house. “Now, about that coffee . . . ?”

I shook my head, said, “Not interested.” I stepped to the side, to go around him. He hesitated, and I thought he was going to block me. My heart picked up speed, brain calculating the distance back to the park. He let me pass, but followed, still talking.

“You may be aware that your mother wrote a book. You may not be aware that it continues to sell quite well. The proceeds, naturally, do not go to Pamela. In the absence of an heir, her royalties are donated to charity. However, now that her heir has been found . . .”

“You’ll help me gain control of those assets,” I said, still walking. “For a price.”

“Fifty percent.” He said it without hesitation. I should have been appalled, but all I could think was,
At least he’s honest.

“Those proceeds are going to the victims, aren’t they?”

“Their families.” He clarified this as if it made them less worthy of compensation. A pause for dramatic effect, then he lowered his voice, “The only living victim here is you, Ms. Jones.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He only dipped his chin, as if granting me a point in a game, which I supposed this was. For him, at least.

“I can see that your standard of living has dropped significantly as the result of this revelation. Your adopted mother has apparently disowned you—”

“No, I’m just taking some time away.”

“Oh?” He looked around. “So this is where you usually come on vacation?”

I kept walking. He followed in silence until we reached the sidewalk, where a sleek Jaguar had taken the last spot on Rowan—the one in front of the fire hydrant.

“May I suggest that poverty is not the grand adventure you expect, Ms. Jones?”

“I know what poverty is.”

“Do you? My mistake then.”

I glanced back. His lips were slightly curved, this time not in a smile but in disdain. Bastard. I climbed the apartment steps. Grace was still there on her battered lawn chair, pulled back into the shadows. She nodded. But it wasn’t me she was looking at.

“Gabriel.”

“Grace. I brought you a scone.” He lifted a small brown bag, which looked remarkably like the one . . . I looked down at my empty hand.

How the hell had he done that?

“Fresh from the oven,” he said. “Still warm.”

Grace took it with a queenly nod, then glowered my way. I started to claim the scone, but realized it would sound like whining. If he got it from me, that was my own fault. Bastard.

“You two know each other?” I said.

“We’re acquainted.” Gabriel turned to me. “I’ve made my offer, Ms. Jones, and I hope you’ll take some time to reconsider it.”

“I don’t need to.”

“I think you might.”

He nodded to Grace, then walked down the steps and headed for the Jag. Got in, peeled from the curb. I watched him go, then turned to Grace.

“You know who I am,” I said.

“Maybe.” She peered into the bag and pulled out the scone. “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you.”

I stood there as she took a bite, gray eyes closing in rapture.

“He said
she
called him.” I waved toward the fortune-teller’s house. “Tipped him off about me.”

She opened one eye, then the other, piqued at the interruption. “If you think it was me, say so. Don’t beat around the bush. Makes you look weak.”

“Okay. So you called him.”

“I wouldn’t call Gabriel Walsh if I was on fire.” She pursed her lips. “No, I might. To sue everyone responsible—from the person who lit the match to those who made my clothes. But I’d wait until the fire was out. Otherwise, he’d just stand there until I was burned enough for a sizable settlement.”

“So he’s an ambulance chaser.”

“He’s a money chaser, doesn’t matter where it comes from. Young as he is, he runs his own practice. Makes him look like some kind of prodigy, but the truth is with his reputation, even the sleaziest firm in Chicago wouldn’t hire him. He is honest, though, in his own way. If he said Rose called him, I’m sure she did, because she called me about you, too. The part Gabriel left out? That old gossip is his great-aunt.”

“Oh.”

“Yes,
oh
. Gabriel Walsh comes from a long line of hustlers. He’s just the first one to go to law school and get a license for it.”

So the last lawyer to represent Pamela Larsen had an aunt who just happened to live across from my new apartment? Seems my luck in finding Cainsville came with a price. I supposed I should have expected as much. Fate is capricious. Nothing comes free. And Gabriel Walsh was an irritation I could deal with.

Grace took another bite of her scone and sighed with pleasure. “Damn. You must have made a good impression on Larry if you got him to bake me up a fresh batch.”

“You knew . . . ?”

“That you brought me this? Course I did.”

“But you thanked—”

“He got it from you. You let him. You need to pay more attention, girl. Especially around that one.”

“In other words, keep my distance.”

“Never said that. Men like Gabriel have their uses. You just need to keep your eyes open and your hand on your wallet.”

Thunder cracked. Lightning split the sky. When I looked up, the clouds had rolled in again.

“Huh, looks like we’re getting a storm,” she said.

She stood and walked to the door, then waved impatiently at her chair. I folded it and carried it inside just as the downpour started.