Gabriel leaves. TC hops onto the bed and stares at me.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “I’m not stupid.”
I pull on my robe and head downstairs.
When I reach the kitchen doorway, I stop and say, “Hey, Gabe?”
“Yes, dear?”
He turns, coffee mug in hand, and I shoot him in the foot. He lets out an unearthly shriek and falls, gripping his foot. The Gabriel glamour ripples, giving me a glimpse of glossy skin and wings before the doppelgänger reverts to Gabriel’s form.
“Cold-iron bullet,” I say, hefting the gun. “Stay on the floor. You even start to stand, and I’ll fire again.”
“You shot me,” he says in a perfect imitation of Gabriel’s voice. “Liv? Why would you do that? Are you unwell?”
“Cut the shit,” I say. “Next time, try learning a little about a subject before you impersonate him. Lovely wife? Dear? Hell, Gabriel never calls me Liv, and if I ever called him Gabe, he’d be putting that bullet in me, knowing I was a doppelgänger.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Count of five,” I say. “Either you drop the act—and the glamour—or the next bullet goes a whole lot higher. If you don’t think I’ll do it, then you really haven’t researched this mission.”
He scowls. The Gabriel glamour ripples and then pops as the doppelgänger takes on a generic human form—a middle-aged white man of average size with brown hair and brown eyes.
TC strolls into the kitchen. The doppelgänger hisses at him.
I don’t know much about this German subtype of fae. I’ve only ever encountered one. They’re rare. They’re also not known for being terribly bright, which is a boon to the rest of us, reducing the chance they can convince you they’re someone you trust.
As I keep the gun trained on the doppelgänger, I phone Gabriel and, again, get his voice mail.
“Hey,” I say when the beep prompts me to leave a message. “So, I figured out that warning. A doppelgänger just tried to impersonate you. Can you call me back, please?”
I flip to the tracking app and check Gabriel’s dot. He’s halfway to Chicago. Still on the phone? Or is something tampering with his phone signal?
I pocket the phone and turn to the doppelgänger. “Who sent you?”
“Someone Gwynn ap Nudd crossed. Someone who should not be crossed.”
Gwynn ap Nudd. A Welsh king of the fae. Some fae think Gabriel is Gwynn reincarnated. It’s more complicated than that, but not entirely inaccurate.
“You mean you were sent by someone Gabriel pissed off.” I snort. “You have to be a whole lot more specific than that.”
“And if I don’t want to be more specific?”
I waggle the gun. Over the next ten minutes, I do more than waggle it, to no avail. The doppelgänger was sent to impersonate Gabriel and spend the morning with me, presumably to keep me distracted, but he only knows his instructions. Like I said, doppelgängers aren’t known for being geniuses, and a smart employer wouldn’t tell him more than necessary.
Time is ticking. I’ve already placed a call, and when the doorbell rings, I shout, “Come in!”
Most of the Cainsville elders fly under the radar by taking on the glamour of senior citizens. Young people never notice when the old stay old. Patrick is special…or he thinks he is, which is another thing altogether. He refuses to follow the rule, and he’s powerful enough to get away with it. He looks younger than Gabriel, which is disconcerting, considering he’s Gabriel’s father. We never call him that. He doesn’t deserve it, having played no role in Gabriel’s upbringing, even to rescue him from a spectacularly shitty homelife.
Patrick doesn’t resemble Gabriel. Not surprising, given that what I see is his human glamour. His real form is a whole lot…greener. His fae type has many names—bòcan, hobgoblin, boggart—but the best-known example is Shakespeare’s Puck. A wild and capricious creature of the forest. Patrick much prefers his human glamour, which looks like a twentysomething bohemian, the kind of guy you can picture writing in a café. Not far off, since that’s what he actually does for a living.
I steer Patrick into the kitchen as I tell him what happened.
Patrick walks up to the doppelgänger. “Who sent you?”
“We’ve already been through that,” I say. “His employer told him as little as possible, and I’m not wasting more time interrogating him when someone wanted me distracted while they go after Gabriel.”
“Oh, I can make him talk,” Patrick says.
“Feel free. But I’m not sticking around for it.”
“You’re right. Gabriel’s in trouble. We need to go.”
“I need to go. You need to babysit this guy.”
Patrick eyes the doppelgänger. “That doesn’t seem like much fun at all.”
“It isn’t about fun.” I scoop up my car keys. “It’s about Gabriel.”
“Good point. In that case, I should go, and you should watch this one.”
I start for the door. “Nope, you get the shitty job because one of us owes Gabriel far more than the other.”
“And when do I finish paying that particular debt?”
“It’s a fae blood debt, meaning it’ll take forever and a day.”
“That is not a thing, Liv,” Patrick says as he stalks after me. “You can’t simply make these things up.”
“Can. Will. Did.” I point at the kitchen. “Watch him. If you get bored, interrogate him.”
“Why don’t we both go after Gabriel? You just need to tie this one up. You must have something here.”
“Handcuffs, but they’re not cold iron.”
“Then what use are…” He trails off. “Don’t answer that.”
“I wasn’t about to.” I open the front door. “Call me if he tells you anything useful.”
I climb into the Maserati Spyder—the favorite of my cars. Yes, I have more than one car. A garage full of them, in fact, stored in Chicago. They’re an inheritance from my adoptive father, and while I only use the Spyder and a more sedate sedan, I can’t bring myself to sell the collection. They’re the only tie I have to him, and I hoard them like a dragon with its last pieces of gold. I’ve reunited with my birth father—the one descended from the Wild Hunt—and in a way, that makes me even more reluctant to cut ties with the man who raised me. Driving his beloved cars maintains a link I don’t want to sever.
I’m about to pull from the driveway when a black shape moves on the passenger seat. I whirl, hands rising to defend myself. TC gives me a baleful look.
I lean over him to open the passenger door. “This isn’t a joyride, kitty. Out you go.”
He stands, as if to leave, and instead stretches out and digs his claws into the leather seat.
“Hey!” I say. “None of that.”
He fixes me with another look.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You can stay but scratch the upholstery and you’re walking back.”
Gabriel’s office is in Chicago, which is nearly an hour away. I work there, too, as his investigator, and I’m accustomed to the commute, but today it seems impossibly long. I’ve blown up his phone with enough messages that it’s stopped offering the option. I’ve texted. I’ve emailed. Nothing.
The last time I checked, his tracking dot was at the office. All I can do is get there.
The doppelgänger referred to Gabriel by Gwynn’s name. That’s significant. It means whoever Gabriel “wronged” is not only fae, but a fae who knows who he is and knows they don’t need to hide their own identity around him. That makes this all the more serious—if fae feel the need to blend, it hobbles their ability to use their powers.