According to human folklore, Gwynn ap Nudd was king of the Tylwyth Teg, the Welsh fae. There are dozens of stories attributed to Gwynn, but one is missing. One very significant story: the tale of Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda of the Night. Matilda of the Hunt.
In human lore, Matilda was a noblewoman who refused to give up hunting when she wed and so was doomed to hunt forever. Nice, huh?
The truth is that she was half Tylwyth Teg and half Cŵn Annwn, the Welsh Wild Hunt. Matilda grew up with the princes of both sides and fell in love with one: Gwynn ap Nudd. Furious, the prince of the Cŵn Annwn—Arawn—called in a blood oath that forced Gwynn to agree that if Arawn could woo Matilda to his side before their wedding day, she’d be his, and the world of the fae closed to her forever.
Not knowing of this pact, Matilda went off to hunt with Arawn the night before she was married. When she saw the world of the Tylwyth Teg closing behind her, she tried to get back to it and died, leaving both men without their beloved, which served them right, really, though it was a shitty thing to happen to Matilda. I can say that with some conviction because I remember it all, having Matilda’s memories deep in my brain.
Gabriel is a distant descendant of Gwynn and his living embodiment, with Gwynn’s memories, just as I’m the living embodiment of Mallt-y-Nos. As for Arawn, Ricky’s a biker with an MBA—and a good friend.
What goes around comes around, especially in fae lore. For now, we have this one sorted, and if this fae is calling Gabriel by Gwynn’s name—which the Tylwyth Teg know Gabriel hates—it only means he’s being an asshole. Most fae are, at heart. Present company included.
As I fret about Gabriel and try to pass it off as devious plotting, TC stays quiet. We reach the office, and TC finally stirs, bracing himself on the dash to look out the windshield.
“Yep,” I say. “Gabriel’s car is here.”
TC leans into the dashboard, as if only stretching from the long drive and not the least concerned about the welfare of this mere human. Even if said human is very warm on cold nights and, unlike the selfish female one, doesn’t kick him off her side of the bed.
I open my door. “Okay, so here’s the plan—”
TC hops over me and zooms along the driveway into the alley, where mice might be found.
“Thanks!” I call after him. “Your help is appreciated, as always.”
I mutter under my breath. “Damn matagot. No gold pieces, no laser vision, no fire-breathing fury. Some magical cat you are.”
I swear his ears twitch as he trots down the alley.
“Just kidding,” I murmur. “You did warn me this was serious.”
I resist the urge to phone Gabriel again. Instead, I check my gun and slide it into my jacket pocket. Then I step out and stretch. I don’t need to stretch, but I’m taking my cue from the cat and trying to appear nonchalant in case our fae foe is watching.
The best way to handle this is to play the card I have been dealt. Be what they expect me to be. I might not have the ability to put on a glamour, but I’m fae—I don’t need superpowers to be something I am not.
I will be silly blond Matilda, whose only power lies in her ability to cause men to make rash and daft promises.
I head for the door with two steaming coffee cups in hand, having whipped through a drive-thru to collect the props. Black coffee for Gabriel, and a mocha for me. As I walk, I slurp happily and bounce along, the young lawyer’s wife in her yoga pants and sneakers and designer spring jacket… The last being perfect for the Chicago wind and also bulky enough to hide my gun.
Gabriel’s office is in a Chicago greystone. Like New York’s brownstones, only gray. It’s a gorgeous building, and we now own all of it, a huge step up from when Gabriel first rented the main level, back when there’d been a meth lab in the basement. He’d had nothing to do with the lab besides helping the owner out of any legal troubles. Yes, at that age, Gabriel had known and employed ninety-five percent of the illegal ways to turn a buck—spending his teen years on the street taught him that—but he drew the line at drugs. That’s what happens when you’re raised by a mother addicted to everything but proper parental care.
The greystone’s front door is unlocked. I throw it open and give a little stumble going in, as if I can’t quite manage a heavy door plus two hot drinks. Once inside, I head for the main floor office. I throw open the door and trill, “Honey? I bought treats!”
The answering silence makes my stomach flip, but I keep smiling as I set the coffees on Lydia’s desk.
“Gabe?” I call. “It’s Liv!”
Earlier, I said that if I ever called my husband “Gabe,” he’d shoot me as a doppelgänger. Not entirely true. He’ll understand it’s a warning. Also, he doesn’t carry a gun.
“Are you here, sweetie?” I call. “I saw your car. Ooh, is this a game?”
I swing through his office door. Inside, his open laptop sits on the desk. The screen is locked but not off, meaning he’s been away only a few minutes. Just then, footsteps clomp upstairs where we keep the storage boxes. There’s a distinct thump, and I can picture Gabriel moving boxes as he hunts for the right one.
That’s when I see the open folder on the desk. It’s a client file, and on the top page, there’s a notation that additional information can be found in a file box. With a business like Gabriel’s, it’s best not to store everything online, even if it’s a pain in the ass to search through boxes.
A coffee mug rests on the visitor’s side of the desk. I peer in. It’s half-full of cold coffee that hasn’t yet skimmed over. Gabriel met his client here and was going through his file when he came across something he needed to access upstairs.
So, where’s the client?
No way would Gabriel take him upstairs to the file vault. I slide out my gun and move into the main reception area. Then I tilt my head, listening. Upstairs, there’s another footfall and another box thump. Gabriel’s still looking.
The blur catches me off guard, damn it, and I’m furious enough about it that I lose a split second of reaction time. There is nothing to hide behind over there, so I wasn’t paying attention to that spot…where a fae was apparently using the rare ability of fading into the background, which works until it moves.
As I spin, that blur turns into a woman, her gun rising as mine does.
I stop. Her gun isn’t pointing at me. It’s aimed straight up, through the old flooring.
“Yes, he’s right there,” she says. “Coincidentally.” Her lips purse. “No, not coincidence at all. You children are so easy to manipulate.”
She looks younger than me, with short red hair and a wide mouth. As I watch, the glamour shifts to that of a man in his fifties, stout and wearing an expensive but unflattering suit.
The fae pretends to hold a phone to her ear, “Mr. Walsh,” she drawls with a southern accent. “It’s been a long time, but it seems I need your help again. No, it’ll have to be this morning. At your office.”
“Yeah, I get it,” I say, still holding the gun as she shifts back to her redhead glamour. “You lured Gabriel here pretending to be one of his old clients.”
“Lured you both here,” she says with a smirk. “Such simple children. Did you congratulate yourself on seeing through that dimwitted doppelgänger’s act so quickly? Oh, no, my dear love is in danger! I must fly to his side! No time to pause and tell the elders what’s happened!”
I keep my features schooled even as irritation darts through me. Okay, I was set up. This was all set up, including Gabriel being unable to find the right file, I presume, keeping him upstairs.