“The offices. You’ve done a good job of making them look like they’re actually being used.”

“Probably because they are. It’s a legitimate business. How else do we afford to live, if we do not work?”

With the exception of Patrick, the Tylwyth Teg didn’t work. When I’d thought they were human, I’d presumed they lived off retirement savings and social security.

“They have nest eggs of a sort,” Ioan said.

I shot him a glare. “You aren’t supposed to do that.”

“I’m not trying. But sometimes, if your thoughts are articulated clearly enough, I hear them anyway.”

“How do we block that?” Ricky asked.

Ioan paused at a door and arched his brows.

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “It’s like the rabbit asking the wolf how to avoid being eaten. Except in this case, it’s in the wolf’s best interest to keep the rabbit happy.”

“Is that how you think of yourself? Rabbits to our wolves?”

Ricky considered. “More like foxes to your wolves. Which means we’re still in danger of being chomped.”

“But you also have the hope of outwitting the larger predator.”

“Outwit. Outrun. Whatever works to keep us one step ahead of you.”

Ricky walked past as Ioan held open the door to an office. This one was huge, spacious, and well-appointed, with a sitting area outside the office proper. We took seats on a leather sofa.

“So the mind reading,” Ricky said. “From what you suggested, we can prevent it by not forming clear thoughts. What’s your range?”

Ioan only smiled at him indulgently.

“Short,” I said. “I’ve only seen him do it when I’m right beside him.”

“All right, then,” Ricky said. “Short range. Difficult to maintain. Works best on clear thoughts. Got it.” He looked at Ioan. “Thanks for your help.”

Ioan’s composure rippled, a trace of consternation showing through. After a moment he said, “The tusks.”

Ricky took his out. We both had one—the tip of a boar’s tusk, carved with writing too old to be deciphered. There were symbols, too. Mine had a sun and moon intertwined. Matilda’s symbol—Cŵn Annwn and fae mingled. Ricky’s had just the moon.

“Hold it,” Ioan said.

Ricky clutched his tusk.

“There,” Ioan said. “You’re blocked. Now, back to the subject of employment. The Cainsville Tylwyth Teg do live primarily on their investments—investments from illegitimate capital gains. You’re familiar with the Walsh family. You know how most of them make a living. Let’s just say they come by their skills naturally. The fae have never met a human they couldn’t fleece, and their sense of superiority makes them feel perfectly justified in doing so. The Cŵn Annwn prefer to earn a living as honestly as possible.”

He took a seat. “However, as I realize that sounds like ethical superiority, I will also allow that we find interaction with humans more tolerable than do the Tylwyth Teg. We can assimilate more easily. That means something like this”—he waved around the office—“is easier for us to accomplish.”

“And the fact that you don’t age?” I said.

“We do. Or, more precisely, we age our glamours.” He turned a frame on a table to face me. In it was a photo of a boy. “This is my son, also named Ioan. He’s eleven. He lives in Florida with his mother. We’re still close—or as close as we can be, living across the country. He’ll go to college there, get a business degree there. When he is twenty-four, I will be taken by a sudden heart attack. He will come to the funeral. My associates—also my Cŵn Annwn pack—will convince him to stay on in the company, where he will quickly rise to my position.”

“Because he is you,” I said. “Your son is a fiction until you’re old enough to be expected to retire, and then you’ll appear as him and continue on.”

“It’s an elaborate ruse, but variations on it have worked for us for centuries.” He eased back. “I do have a son, quite a bit older than this one. He does run his own business, though. Quite successfully. Though in his case, his fae blood might be a little more prominent, his line of business not quite so legitimate.”

“My father,” Ricky said.

Ioan went still. “Someone told you?”

“No, I suspected. You just clinched it. Now, Liv has questions—”

“You’re angry that I didn’t tell you sooner.”

“No, I’m moving on.”

Despite his demeanor, Ricky was pissed. He may have suspected this, but he wouldn’t like hearing it confirmed and was trying to act as if it didn’t matter. He wanted it to not matter, so I said, “Ricky’s in trouble.”

That got Ioan back on track. “Yes, of course. That’s why you’re here. What seems to be the problem?”

“The police are investigating Ricky in the disappearance of a man who was stalking him. A man who seems to be the target of the Cŵn Annwn.”

Ioan frowned. Before he could ask, I explained. When I finished, Ioan leaned back in his chair and said, “Ciro Halloran …”

“Never heard of him?”

“No, I certainly have. He’s been doing exactly what you saw in your vision: killing lamiae.”

“Lamiae? Plural?”

“Two so far, we believe. That does put him in our crosshairs, so to speak. We haven’t been able to catch him, though.”