She leapt up so fast she startled me. Moments later she had a book in her hand, flipping through it as she came back to her chair. She set it in front of me.

I looked down at an old painting of wild-haired hunters on wild-eyed steeds, accompanied by fearsome black hounds. And boars. And ravens.

The hair on my neck prickled.

The heading on the facing page? Cwn Annwn. Literally, the hounds of the Otherworld. Better known as the Wild Hunt. They escorted the dead to the afterlife. According to the lore, if you heard the howling of the hounds, you would die.

“Um, not liking that part,” I said, pointing.

“It’s true, though. You will die. Someday. I can guarantee it.”

I gave her a look.

“Well, you heard the hounds baying last night, and you’re still alive, aren’t you? Did it sound soft or loud?”

“Soft.”

“They were close, then. That’s the lore—the louder they are, the farther they are.” She pulled out her chair and sat. “There are stories of the Wild Hunt from all across the British Isles and onto the Continent. Their appearance, their purpose, even their intentions—good, evil, indifferent—it all changes, depending on who you ask.” She closed the book. “I’ll compile what I can. I doubt we’ll determine their true purpose, but it can’t hurt.”

“Their true . . . ? You actually think I saw . . . ?”

“My great-grandmother told me she saw them once, around here. She was a teenager, sneaking off to meet a boy, and she heard the hounds. She ran, but it was too late. They rode right past her, men on flaming black steeds, wearing cloaks with hoods that hid their faces save for glowing red eyes. One of the riders slowed and called out in a terrible voice, telling her to stay out of the woods on the eve of St. Martin. She ran home and immediately gave all her prized possessions to family and friends, as she prepared for her death. She lived to ninety-seven.”

“Well, that part’s comforting. I’m not so sure about the flaming steeds.”

“I have a better account of her story written down here somewhere. I’d tell it to my babysitting charges when they wanted spooky tales. Seanna used to beg me for it. When Gabriel was born, everyone presumed she’d named him after the archangel. I knew better. There’s another name for the Wild Hunt: Gabriel’s Hounds.”

“Kinda thinking she’d have been better off naming him after the angel.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Archangel or hound from hell . . . with Gabriel, it depends on the day.”

“Not sure I see the angelic part.”

She took the last cookie from the plate. “He offered you the job of your dreams, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think angels are supposed to grant wishes.”

“They should. It would make them much more interesting.” She polished off the cookie and wiped away the crumbs. “Now, to bed with you. Put this aside for now.”

I took my keys from my pocket.

“Uh-uh,” she said. “Upstairs.”

“I have a security system now.”

“Which will not help you against otherworldly beings. You’ll stay here until I’ve consulted the cards tomorrow and taken a better look at that tusk. I believe I mentioned my house is warded.” She looked at me. “You thought I was joking? I was not. You’re safe here. Now off to bed. Gabriel expects you in the morning, and he’ll be more hellhound than angel if you’re late.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

As it turned out, I didn’t need to get an early start the next morning. Gabriel called saying he had an urgent meeting and wouldn’t be in the office until ten thirty.

I decided to head into the city early and pick up a coffee for James. I garnered a few looks in the coffee shop, but I ignored them, as I’d been ignoring the whispers and glances for weeks.

I also ignored the first text message from Ricky—a simple You around? check-in. Then he sent a second one: Call me. ASAP. Kinda important. As I waited for the elevator, I managed to shift the coffees to one hand and speed-dial with the other. Yes, Ricky was on speed dial already, but only because not many people were anymore and, well, yes, we did talk a few times a day.

“What’s up?” I said when he answered. I could hear the sound of a lecturer in the background. “You’re in class? How about I call back—”

“Hold on.”

A whispered “Excuse me,” then his footsteps tapping quickly down stairs, the lecturer’s voice growing louder. The whoosh of a door. The lecturer’s voice faded. Ricky’s footfalls continued, taking him past a loud group of students in the hall.

“Have you seen the Post this morning?” he asked when it was quiet again.

“These days, I don’t see the Post any morning I can avoid it.” The Trib and the Sun-Times had begun losing interest in my story weeks ago. The Post had not.

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. But you might want to grab a copy.”

I swore. The elevator dinged.

“Where are you?” Ricky asked.

“James’s office. Taking him coffee before—”

“Don’t get on the elevator,” he cut in.

“Um, too late,” I said as the doors closed. “What’s up?”

He said he was going to e-mail me something. It came through almost immediately, as the packed elevator made the slow climb to James’s floor at the top. I opened the e-mail, checked the attachment, and . . .

My chest seized. “Shit.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. If I’d caught anyone taking that . . .” Ricky trailed off, threat unfinished. “I’m sorry.”

I lowered my voice. “You’re not the idiot who chose a favorite coffee haunt.”

“I don’t think that would have mattered. Eventually someone was going to . . . I’d say ‘catch us,’ but that implies we were sneaking around. Actually, it’s better that it was your usual spot. Clearly we weren’t hiding. That should help.”

He sounded about as convinced as I felt. “I’ll talk to my dad and explain it,” he said.

“I’ll handle James.”

“Okay. Call me later?” he said.

“I will.”

A pause. Then, “Will you?”

“Of course.”

When I hung up, we were nearly at James’s floor. Two other riders were staring at me. One looked away and whispered to her companion when I glanced over. I knew what she was talking about. A picture in the Post. With a caption, explaining that Pamela and Todd Larsen’s daughter—former debutante and fiancée of James Morgan—had been spotted having coffee with the son of biker club Satan’s Saints president Don Gallagher.