Omens
Page 74
“They didn’t know. That’s what I’m looking into. What they did to . . .” I cleared my throat. “The ritualistic aspects don’t fit any known occult branch. I’m trying to make sense of it myself.”
“Oh, that sounds interesting.” Ida reached out for the folder. “May I take a look?”
Hell, no. I lowered the folder onto my lap. “I can’t. Sorry. They’re official files.”
“Perhaps you can give us an overview,” Ida said. “I do love mysteries.”
“I really don’t think—”
“She’s trying, very politely, to say, ‘not a chance in hell,’” said a voice behind me.
Patrick strolled over. As he met my eyes, he rolled his.
“Those weren’t polite little Agatha Christie murders,” he said to the others. “Liv’s not going to share it with folks whose idea of horror is Bela Lugosi in face paint.”
“I didn’t say—” I began.
“Why give the old folks nightmares when they sure as hell aren’t going to know anything useful about the occult.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Patrick talk to the town elders like that. They might rebuke Gabriel, but they only glowered and muttered at Patrick. Odd, considering how young he was.
“Shoo,” he said, waving his fingers at them. “You can’t help here. I, on the other hand, am well versed in the black arts.”
I don’t know what kind of look I gave him, but he burst out laughing.
“No, I don’t mutilate cats in my basement. I’m a writer, remember? This is my specialty.”
“Horror?”
He shrugged. “Something like that.”
“He’s playing with you, my dear,” Ida said. “He can’t help you.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Patrick said. “Not in here, though. Too many nosy senior citizens. How about we take a walk to the park, and you can test my knowledge of arcane occult trivia. See how helpful I can be.”
“I need to be back by five,” I said as I rose. I could feel Ida’s and Walter’s chilly displeasure, but with Gabriel gone, I couldn’t afford to turn down help.
I murmured a good-bye to the others, and let Patrick lead me from the diner.
COEXISTENCE
Patrick glanced back at the old folks as he shuttled Olivia out the door. Their scowls deepened, just in case he was unaware of how much they disapproved. He knew, of course—he lived under a perpetual cloud of their disapproval.
It had been like this since they’d settled Cainsville. He’d been the sole dissenting voice when they’d devised their silly rules for coexisting with the boinne-fala. They had presumed he would come around, and eventually do things their way. He had not. He never would. Which annoyed them to no end. They could simply have asked him to leave. That, however, would be . . . unwise.
Yet it was his very flouting of the rules that allowed him to waltz off with their prize today. He had to laugh at their clumsy attempts to discover Olivia’s progress. She looked at them and saw old people, beyond the ability to help, particularly with something so disturbing. It might stop their aged hearts.
They were curious, of course. Concerned, too. Would Olivia find anything? Was there anything to find? The problem was that none of them knew. When Pamela Bowen and Todd Larsen were arrested for killing those four couples, the elders of Cainsville heard only rumors of what had happened, from those who lived outside the town. They helped when they could, like the brùnaidh who gave Grace’s address to Olivia or the spriggan who scared her out of Chicago. Both had been quick to contact the elders, like eager puppies expecting a scratch behind the ears. They might not live here, but they knew it was wise to ingratiate themselves with the residents of Cainsville.
Now Olivia was investigating her parents’ crimes. Gabriel was helping . . . Or he had been. Their apparent estrangement concerned Patrick, which was terribly annoying. He hated to be concerned. It wasn’t in his nature. He had a soft spot for Gabriel, though, more than he usually did for his epil. If Olivia was to discover anything of interest, it would behoove Gabriel to be there, at her side, to reap the benefits.
Patrick hoped the situation between them would resolve itself. He was sure it would. But if it didn’t, he might give it a little push.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“So you write horror?” I said as we walked to the park.
“No. Paranormal romance.”
I glanced over.
A mock-offended look. “You think I’m kidding?”
“I’m not sure, because I have no idea what that is.”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Vampires, demons, witches, and the like. With romance. It’s a hot market.”
“So you’re trying to break in by writing it?”
“Break in? I have six books out already. How do you think I can afford to sit in a diner typing all day?”
“Sorry. You just seem young to be published.”
“I’m older than I look.”
We turned onto the path to the park.
“Do you publish under a pseudonym?” I asked.
“Have to, being a guy writing romance. Shall I tell you my pen name, so you can pretend you’ll get one from the library? Let things become horribly awkward when you don’t and I ask how you liked it?”
“So you won’t tell me your pseudonym?”
“I’ll do one better. I’ll bring a copy of my latest to the diner. Just to make it even more awkward, because you won’t have any excuse for not reading it.”
He opened the gate on the empty park and ushered me to the bench inside. “In paranormal romance, you need three elements to stand out in a crowded market. One? Sex. I’m very good at it.” He sat down. “I’m not bad at writing it, either.”
I rolled my eyes. He only smiled.
“And the other two?” I asked.
“Originality and attention to detail, both of which require extensive research. While most writers focus on the Hollywood tropes—vampires, werewolves, and such—I dig deeper. Which means I know a lot about the occult and everything currently labeled as the occult by Western Christian society, more correctly known as folklore and pagan religions.”
He leaned over and lowered his voice, fake-conspiratorial. “So, do I qualify to hear the juicy heretofore unrevealed details?”
“Oh, that sounds interesting.” Ida reached out for the folder. “May I take a look?”
Hell, no. I lowered the folder onto my lap. “I can’t. Sorry. They’re official files.”
“Perhaps you can give us an overview,” Ida said. “I do love mysteries.”
“I really don’t think—”
“She’s trying, very politely, to say, ‘not a chance in hell,’” said a voice behind me.
Patrick strolled over. As he met my eyes, he rolled his.
“Those weren’t polite little Agatha Christie murders,” he said to the others. “Liv’s not going to share it with folks whose idea of horror is Bela Lugosi in face paint.”
“I didn’t say—” I began.
“Why give the old folks nightmares when they sure as hell aren’t going to know anything useful about the occult.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Patrick talk to the town elders like that. They might rebuke Gabriel, but they only glowered and muttered at Patrick. Odd, considering how young he was.
“Shoo,” he said, waving his fingers at them. “You can’t help here. I, on the other hand, am well versed in the black arts.”
I don’t know what kind of look I gave him, but he burst out laughing.
“No, I don’t mutilate cats in my basement. I’m a writer, remember? This is my specialty.”
“Horror?”
He shrugged. “Something like that.”
“He’s playing with you, my dear,” Ida said. “He can’t help you.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” Patrick said. “Not in here, though. Too many nosy senior citizens. How about we take a walk to the park, and you can test my knowledge of arcane occult trivia. See how helpful I can be.”
“I need to be back by five,” I said as I rose. I could feel Ida’s and Walter’s chilly displeasure, but with Gabriel gone, I couldn’t afford to turn down help.
I murmured a good-bye to the others, and let Patrick lead me from the diner.
COEXISTENCE
Patrick glanced back at the old folks as he shuttled Olivia out the door. Their scowls deepened, just in case he was unaware of how much they disapproved. He knew, of course—he lived under a perpetual cloud of their disapproval.
It had been like this since they’d settled Cainsville. He’d been the sole dissenting voice when they’d devised their silly rules for coexisting with the boinne-fala. They had presumed he would come around, and eventually do things their way. He had not. He never would. Which annoyed them to no end. They could simply have asked him to leave. That, however, would be . . . unwise.
Yet it was his very flouting of the rules that allowed him to waltz off with their prize today. He had to laugh at their clumsy attempts to discover Olivia’s progress. She looked at them and saw old people, beyond the ability to help, particularly with something so disturbing. It might stop their aged hearts.
They were curious, of course. Concerned, too. Would Olivia find anything? Was there anything to find? The problem was that none of them knew. When Pamela Bowen and Todd Larsen were arrested for killing those four couples, the elders of Cainsville heard only rumors of what had happened, from those who lived outside the town. They helped when they could, like the brùnaidh who gave Grace’s address to Olivia or the spriggan who scared her out of Chicago. Both had been quick to contact the elders, like eager puppies expecting a scratch behind the ears. They might not live here, but they knew it was wise to ingratiate themselves with the residents of Cainsville.
Now Olivia was investigating her parents’ crimes. Gabriel was helping . . . Or he had been. Their apparent estrangement concerned Patrick, which was terribly annoying. He hated to be concerned. It wasn’t in his nature. He had a soft spot for Gabriel, though, more than he usually did for his epil. If Olivia was to discover anything of interest, it would behoove Gabriel to be there, at her side, to reap the benefits.
Patrick hoped the situation between them would resolve itself. He was sure it would. But if it didn’t, he might give it a little push.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“So you write horror?” I said as we walked to the park.
“No. Paranormal romance.”
I glanced over.
A mock-offended look. “You think I’m kidding?”
“I’m not sure, because I have no idea what that is.”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Vampires, demons, witches, and the like. With romance. It’s a hot market.”
“So you’re trying to break in by writing it?”
“Break in? I have six books out already. How do you think I can afford to sit in a diner typing all day?”
“Sorry. You just seem young to be published.”
“I’m older than I look.”
We turned onto the path to the park.
“Do you publish under a pseudonym?” I asked.
“Have to, being a guy writing romance. Shall I tell you my pen name, so you can pretend you’ll get one from the library? Let things become horribly awkward when you don’t and I ask how you liked it?”
“So you won’t tell me your pseudonym?”
“I’ll do one better. I’ll bring a copy of my latest to the diner. Just to make it even more awkward, because you won’t have any excuse for not reading it.”
He opened the gate on the empty park and ushered me to the bench inside. “In paranormal romance, you need three elements to stand out in a crowded market. One? Sex. I’m very good at it.” He sat down. “I’m not bad at writing it, either.”
I rolled my eyes. He only smiled.
“And the other two?” I asked.
“Originality and attention to detail, both of which require extensive research. While most writers focus on the Hollywood tropes—vampires, werewolves, and such—I dig deeper. Which means I know a lot about the occult and everything currently labeled as the occult by Western Christian society, more correctly known as folklore and pagan religions.”
He leaned over and lowered his voice, fake-conspiratorial. “So, do I qualify to hear the juicy heretofore unrevealed details?”
