Not a man? Not human? What the hell else could he be?

“I don’t understand,” I said finally.

He gave me a sympathetic look. “I know. But you’re a smart girl, and you’ll figure it out as soon as you admit there’s something to be figured out. About me. About Cainsville.”

“What about Cainsville?”

“What about it indeed. Just an ordinary little town. So very ordinary.”

“If you have something to tell me—”

“That’s more like it. But I can’t. Not my place. I’m just”—he pursed his lips, as if choosing his words—“making contact. I have what you want, Olivia. I could get metaphysical and say that I have what your soul wants, what your heart and mind want, what you need to be happy and complete in your very uncommon life. And I do. But for now, I’ll settle for saying that I have the answers you want. Particularly the ones you want most.”

“Which are those?”

“You know, just as you know, deep down, that when I say I knew your parents, I’m not talking about Arthur Jones and Lena Taylor.”

He reached into his pocket and tossed something to me. I caught it. A tooth. No, more like a tusk. A couple of inches long, carved with strange markings and capped with copper.

“A boar’s tusk,” he explained. “Or the tip of one. Keep it with you. For protection.”

“From what? The hounds?” I said before I could stop myself.

He smiled that indulgent you-are-such-a-child smile. “You don’t need protection from the hounds, Olivia. They mean you no harm. Nor do I. Others, however . . .” He stepped toward me and lowered his voice. “Beware and be wary, bychan.”

Then he set the champagne flutes on the floor and started to walk away.

“Who are you?” I called after him.

He glanced back. “Who? Is that really your question?”

“What are you?”

I met his gaze, and I heard the hounds baying, and I heard horses snorting and hooves pounding, and I smelled sweat and musk and wet earth.

“Cwn Annwn,” I said, whispering the unfamiliar words as if they’d been pulled from me. I expected him to frown, to ask, “What?” But he only chuckled, and then he walked away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

After the man left, I wandered back toward the party, dazed, as if I’d taken another blow to the head, the world fuzzy and off-kilter, the ground unsteady.

“Liv?”

I saw James hurrying toward me and snapped out of it.

“Hey,” I said. “Sorry. Restroom break took a little longer than I thought.”

He laughed. “It happens. I was starting—” He glanced at my hand. “What’s that?”

I lifted the boar’s tusk. “I found it on the floor. At first I thought it was a pendant, but . . .”

“It looks like a tusk.”

I tried not to seem relieved. I hadn’t dared identify it, half expecting James wouldn’t see what I did.

“Weird, huh?” I said. “Definitely not a pendant. Maybe some kind of good luck charm.” I put my arm through his and slid the tusk into my bag.

“I was starting to wonder if I’d missed a signal and was supposed to meet you here.” He grinned my way. “I know you like back halls.”

“I do.”

His hand slid down to my rear. I tensed. I didn’t mean to, but I was still off balance and struggling to find my way back. He pulled his hand away fast.

“Sorry,” I said. “Just . . . distracted.”

I tried to remember the dance, what it had felt like, my body against his. Then I pushed my mind back to the last charity event we’d attended, when we’d slipped into a back corridor and had sex against the wall, delicious sex. I felt the first licks of heat, but it wasn’t enough. Yet I didn’t want to say no, either. I could feel that slow ache. I just couldn’t shake thoughts of the man I’d just met.

“Let’s do something this weekend,” I said. “I mean, if you’re not busy—”

“I’m not.” His arm tightened around me as he moved closer while we walked.

“I’m done working at three on Friday and I’m off Saturday. I can try to wrangle Sunday, too. We could go away. If you want.”

He grinned. “I do.”

“Good.”

“And right now, I think it’s late enough to say our goodbyes and spend some quality time eating frozen custard. If you still want.”

I smiled. “I do.”

—

It takes a special talent to enjoy frozen custard mere minutes after being confronted by an otherworldly being who hands you a boar’s tusk. I have that talent. It’s called acting. I’d been a dedicated member of every school troupe from elementary through college. I’m a natural, which may be what comes from growing up feeling as if I was playing a role in someone else’s drama. For James’s sake, I had to eat custard and smile and laugh, because that’s what he expected and he hadn’t done anything to deserve less. So I enjoyed our post-date treat and then zoomed home, punched in the code to my new security system, and took out my phone to . . .

To what?

Call Gabriel. That was the first thing I thought of. I had to call Gabriel and tell him . . .

It wasn’t a question of “tell him what?” I could tell him about this. He’d listen. He’d believe. He’d strategize. The question was, Why him? I’d reflex-dialed Gabriel Saturday night, but that had at least been for professional advice—how to handle finding a part of a corpse in my bed. This was personal.

—

At work the next day, the Clarks came by midmorning, as they usually did, for tea and scones. I waited until my break. Then I spoke to them about Ciara Conway. I wanted to talk about her. I could move through my days, act like nothing was wrong, but I was keenly aware that a young woman was dead and her family didn’t know it. If there was anything I could do to ease my conscience, I would do it.

“I feel like I should do something,” I said after we talked. “I’m not exactly a detective, but Gabriel taught me how to do some basic legwork. Maybe I can prod the police into conducting a better investigation.”

“You did very well with your mother’s case,” Ida said. “You may have found your calling: Olivia Jones, private eye.” She looked at her husband. “We don’t have one of those in Cainsville, do we?”