On my way past the library, I popped in to check the bulletin board. If I planned to stay in Cainsville for a while, I should get more involved. I could join the knitting circle. Or the book club. Or, if I waited a few weeks, lawn bowling season would start.

I skimmed to karate lessons. Join anytime. Weekly at the community center. Five dollars per session.

That I could afford and self-defense lessons wouldn’t be a bad idea. I jotted down the particulars.

• • •

It wasn’t yet ten when I got back to my apartment, but Gabriel’s Jag was already out front, and the man himself was on the stoop, talking to Grace.

“Let me grab my notebook,” I said, by way of greeting.

“I brought the file.” He lifted it.

“Which is good, considering that’s what I’m paying you for.”

I started to walk past him.

“I meant that we don’t need to go anywhere,” he said. “If you’re uncomfortable having me in your apartment, we can leave the door open.”

“Um, no, I know how to scream. And I’m sure Grace would call the cops for me. Otherwise she’d lose the rental.”

Grace nodded, not the least offended.

“I’m suggesting we don’t do this inside because my apartment stinks,” I said. “Despite hours of cleaning.”

“Buy an air freshener,” Grace said.

“I did. A lovely peach-scented one. Now my apartment smells like rotten peaches. I’m going to paint the place next week.”

“Wash the walls first,” Gabriel said.

I looked up at him.

“You need to use a bleach solution on the walls, or you’ll only temporarily cover the stench.”

Obviously someone who had experience with cheap apartments. I struggled to picture it—the guy looked like he wouldn’t be caught dead outside the penthouse.

“And buy good paint,” Grace said.

“Will that help?”

“No, but if you buy cheap-ass crap and it peels, I’ll—”

I cut her off with a wave and headed inside. Gabriel followed.

When I opened my apartment door, he took one sniff and said, “You’re right.”

“Checking my alibi, counselor?” I said. “If I wasn’t comfortable being alone with you, I’d say so.”

As I grabbed my notebook and pen, he stepped in. His gaze went to the wastepaper basket and I remembered the card in there.

“Not yours,” I said. “Seems pushing business cards under doors runs in your family. Your aunt wants a consultation. Or, I suspect, she wants me to buy one from her.”

“I presume you aren’t interested.”

“You presume correctly.”

“Good. I’ll speak to her. She won’t bother you again.”

So he didn’t want me talking to his aunt? Interesting.

I fished the card out of the trash. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty.”

He plucked the card from my fingers. “My aunt sells superstition, Olivia. While you may be at a point in your life where you wouldn’t mind some guidance, I’d suggest you spend your money on decent paint instead. It will brighten your future far more than any psychic reading.”

Was he worried his aunt might warn me against him? Or was he merely pretending he didn’t want me to visit her, because I’d already shown signs that I was a contrary bitch?

Damn.

I let him keep the card and locked the door behind us.

• • •

As we walked out of the building, Gabriel began listing places we could talk—the library, the coffee shop. I vetoed them all and instead steered him down the alley to the park.

We arrived just as the only occupants—a woman with two preschoolers—were heading home. I held the gate for her. As we walked through, Gabriel rubbed the head of a chimera griffin.

“For luck?” I said.

“No. For . . .” He paused. “Protection.”

“Protection? Against what?”

“Bogeymen and goblins and fairies and everything else that might threaten the life of an innocent child.”

I studied his face. “You’re serious.”

“Serious in the sense that it’s what I was told, growing up. As for whether they still tell children that . . . ?” He shrugged. “My aunt is far from the only superstitious soul in this town.”

“And those?” I pointed at the gargoyles on the bank. “Protection against flying monkeys?”

“Plague.”

I shot another look his way.

“That’s what I heard. When the plague struck Chicago, the townspeople here erected the gargoyles, and nary a soul was lost to the Black Death.”

“The bubonic plague predates Chicago by about five hundred years.”

He lowered himself to the bench. “I know. I was very disappointed when I found out. Almost as bad as when I learned there were no fairies. The world is much more interesting with goblins and plagues.”

“Unless you catch the plague.”

“It’s a risk. But imagine the market for quack cures. One could make a fortune.” He gazed up at the gargoyles. “I suppose there’s a more prosaic explanation. Someone puts up a gargoyle. His neighbor puts up two. Before you know”—he swept a hand across the vista—“monsters everywhere.”

“Speaking of monsters . . .” I pointed at the file.

“That’s an awkward segue,” he said. “You can do better.”

“Lawyers bill in fifteen-minute increments. Stop stalling and give me the damn file.”

He handed it over.

OLD BLOOD

Patrick closed his laptop and waved to Susie that he was leaving it behind. She didn’t meet his eyes as she nodded. She hadn’t met his gaze since the day he’d gone for a walk and come back to find she’d moved his laptop behind the counter. Patrick hadn’t complained. He’d simply mentioned it to Larry, and said he’d appreciate it if that didn’t happen again.

He had no idea what Larry told the girl. Patrick had never been anything but respectful and friendly to him. But like most boinne-fala with a hint of old blood, Larry had an innate sense that Patrick was not someone to be trifled with.

The new girl recognized it, too, yet her respect wasn’t mingled with fear. She was cautious but curious. A different type of old blood; a different type of reaction. He preferred hers. While there was a sweetness to fear, it was a closed door. Curiosity cracked that door open.