Deceptions

Book 3: The Cainsville Series

by Kelley Armstrong

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Occult & Supernatural; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

The #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Otherworld series delivers her most suspenseful novel yet, where the discovery of Cainsville's dark past and the true nature of its inhabitants leads to murder, redemption, love, and unspeakable loss.

Olivia Taylor Jones's life has exploded. She's discovered she is not only adopted, but her real parents are convicted serial killers. Fleeing the media frenzy, she took refuge in the oddly secluded town of Cainsville. She has since solved the town's mysteries and finds herself not only the target of its secretive elders but also her stalker ex-fiancé.

Visions continue to haunt her: particularly a little blond girl in a green sundress who insists she has an important message for Olivia, one that may help her balance the light and darkness within herself. Death stalks both Olivia and the two men most important to her, as she desperately searches to understand whether ancient scripts are dictating the triangle that connects them. Will darkness prevail, or does Olivia have the power to prevent a tragic fate?


From the Hardcover edition.

Release date: August 18, 2015

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 448

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

I woke to my ex-fiancé calling. Which was awkward, considering we’d broken up only two months ago and I was in another guy’s apartment. Even more awkward when that guy wasn’t the one I was currently dating. In my defense, I was on the couch.

My first thought was not Answer the damned phone, Olivia. It was of a letter from my father, read right before I went to sleep, which had not been conducive to good dreams and had left me in no mood to talk to James Morgan. I reached for my phone and hit Ignore. A moment later, a shadow loomed over me.

Gabriel picked up my phone. “James. He left a message. I should take it.”

“Um, my cell? My ex?”

“Your stalker, too.”

I looked up. Gabriel is at least six-four and knows how to use his size to his advantage. Hence the looming.

When I nodded, he listened to the message as I tried very hard to push aside thoughts of James and the roller-coaster ride that began when I found out my real parents were convicted serial killers. The ride had ultimately landed me here, sleeping in the apartment of one of Chicago’s most notorious defense attorneys. My lawyer. My boss. And, though I’d never dare say it in front of him, my friend.

Gabriel Walsh doesn’t have friends. He has resources: people who can be exploited and used. I’d like to think I’m an exception, but I don’t push my luck.

“James heard about last night,” Gabriel said after listening to the message.

“The car crash?”

“Yes, but I believe he’s more concerned about the crazed killer who caused the crash and held you at gunpoint.”

“Oh, that.”

“A minor point, but it seems to bother him.”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Agreed. Coffee?”

I rose and started for the kitchen. “I’ll make it. You were in that accident, too, and hurt a lot worse than me. You should be resting.”

He moved into my path and waved me back. That wasn’t him playing congenial host; it was him telling me to stay the hell out of his kitchen. I suspected last night was the first time he’d brought anyone up here. His apartment. His private domain.

“If you’d rather I didn’t stay—” I began.

“I invited you.”

“After sustaining a head injury. Which means you aren’t responsible for anything you said last night . . . except for the part where you forgave me for wrecking your car.”

“You were run off the road.”

“I still feel bad. It was a nice car.” I paused. “I’m also sorry about almost getting you killed.”

“She says, as an afterthought.”

“It was a really nice car.”

He shook his head and went into the kitchen. I followed as far as the doorway.

“You’ll need to let James know you’re all right,” Gabriel said. “I would suggest a text message. Tell him—”

“I can write my own texts.”

“Yes, but this must be handled with care. While I’d prefer you didn’t engage him at all, if you don’t tell him you’re fine, he has an excuse to keep hounding you. Yet if you give any indication you’re opening the door to conversation, he has reason to keep hounding you.”

I had to agree. Gabriel dictated a message. I did tweak his wording—Gabriel’s language choices can be very precise, and James couldn’t suspect the text had come from him. He seemed to think Gabriel had a Svengali sway over me. Which showed that my former fiancé didn’t know me nearly as well as I’d thought he did.

Message sent, we settled in with our coffee, chairs pulled to the living room window, where we could look out over Gabriel’s breathtaking view of the city.

“I had a call this morning,” he said. “Edgar Chandler wishes to speak to you.”

“Chandler?”

“Yes. Elderly gentleman. Currently incarcerated. Formerly involved in CIA experiments. Seems to have unlocked the secret of mind control. Which he used in an attempt to kill us.”

“I know who Chandler is.”

“It seemed as if a refresher might be required, given the sheer number of people who have tried to kill us lately.”

“True. So he’ll finally speak to us?”

“Chandler has no interest in me. The invitation is for you. May I presume you’ll accept?”

“May I presume you’ll come with me?”

His brows shot up. “Of course. Whether he wants me there or not.”

—

Gabriel arranged to see Chandler that afternoon. A half hour later we were in the elevator, taking the fifty-five-story ride down to the underground parking garage.

“So what else are we doing today?” I asked as we exited the elevator. “The only thing on my schedule is working at the diner. Which I’m not.” I wasn’t sure if I ever could again. I’d told Larry I was unwell—between the accident and the fever that preceded it—and needed some time off, and he’d given me two weeks.

“I require a vehicle,” Gabriel said. “Since that is your area of expertise, I’m taking you along to select one. After that, we’ll pick up a rental car. Then we’ll drop your car back here and—”

“Skip the play-by-play and hit the highlights, please.”

“Today will be devoted primarily to cleaning up the mess from yesterday. We need . . .”

An almost imperceptible tightening of his shoulders told me something had caught his attention. Gabriel has an uncanny sense for trouble, which may be because his gene pool, like mine, contains a sprinkling of fairy dust.

“What’s up?” I whispered.

He scanned the row of parked cars. “Do you have your gun?”

“Always.”

He put his fingers against my back and propelled me forward.

“Any warnings?” he murmured.

“Portents of impending doom?” I said. “Not a one, but honestly? I’m discombobulated enough this morning that I could trip over five dead birds and not notice.”

“We’re both out of sorts. Which reminds me that I need to stop by the doctor and pick up a prescription for pain—”

When he wheeled, I didn’t jump. Nor was I surprised to see a man two paces behind us. Gabriel admitting he needed pain meds had conveyed a warning as clearly as if he’d shouted it.

The man didn’t look like the sort who’d be stalking us in an empty parking garage: early forties, decent suit, gray-salted beard. A reporter? I’d had to deal with plenty lately.

“May I help you?” Gabriel rumbled, his deep voice dropping another octave.

“Gabriel Walsh?”

“Yes.”

The man held out a thick envelope. “You’ve been served. This is—”

Gabriel grabbed the guy by the wrist, wrenching his arm up. The guy yelped, but didn’t drop the envelope . . . or the semi-automatic pistol he’d tried to conceal in his other hand.

“Give Mr. Walsh your gun,” I said.

The man stared in confusion at the gun in my own hand.

“Give it to him now.”

He opened his fingers and dropped his pistol. Gabriel grabbed for it with his free hand. Then he stopped sharply. “Oliv—!”

The gun clattered to the pavement. And cold steel pressed into the back of my neck.

“You don’t want to do that,” Gabriel said, his pale blue eyes fixed on my captor.

A man’s chuckle sounded behind me. “I don’t believe you’re in any position to make that demand, Mr. Walsh.”

“Then you are mistaken. Hurt her, and you will regret it.”

“Regret it? That’s all? I expected ‘I’ll hunt you down and kill you’ at the very least.”

“Death is quick. Regret is not.”

The gun pressed harder into my neck, as if the man was leaning forward. “Clever, Mr. Walsh. I’m sure Ms. Jones is very impressed. Her knight in tarnished armor. Impressionable young women must find that very hard to resist.”

“They may,” Gabriel said. “Unfortunately, we don’t have any here at the moment, so you’ll have to trust the threat is for your benefit alone.”

“Chivalry and flattery. Are your knees weak yet, Ms. Jones? Oh, and do put away the gun. Please.”

I hesitated, then lowered it into my bag.

“Now remove your hand from your purse, Ms. Jones.”

I did.

The man continued, “I’d like to believe modern young women wouldn’t fall for Mr. Walsh’s act, but the very fact you are with him proves otherwise. We’ll have to chat about that later. For now, you’ll come with me, Ms. Jones, while Mr. Walsh releases my confederate and then stays where he is until we are out of sight. If he follows, you will pay the price. Understood, Mr. Walsh?”

My assailant dug the gun barrel in hard enough to make me wince. Gabriel punted the other man’s gun under the cars and then released him with a shove. My assailant took hold of my arm. When he lowered the gun, I stabbed him in the side, having palmed the switchblade from my purse. He fell back, and I grabbed for his gun arm. I missed. Gabriel didn’t.

Gabriel wrenched the man’s arm up. His partner crawled after his lost weapon, but when I told him to stop, he saw the gun back in my hand and decided to listen.

Gabriel threw my attacker to the ground. It was another guy in a suit. Bald. Thirties. He immediately started rising, one hand clutched to the knife wound. Gabriel calmly punched him in the side of the head. The guy dropped, unconscious, to the pavement.

“There’s blood on your shirt,” I said.

Gabriel glanced down and sighed.

“You can put it on my bill,” I said.

He shook his head and walked over to the first man, who had started inching toward his gun again. I’d noticed, but at the rate he was moving, he’d be lucky to make it there by lunch. Gabriel grabbed the guy from under the car, flipped him on his back, and put one Ferragamo loafer on his chest.

“I’ve decided to speak to you instead of your partner,” Gabriel said. “Tell me now if I’ve made the wrong choice.”

The man wriggled, as if testing how tightly he was pinned. When Gabriel leaned forward, he gasped and lay still.

“I’ll presume that means I did not,” Gabriel said. “Prove me wrong, and I’ll break every rib in your chest. Is that understood?”

The guy looked offended. Coming after us with guns was fine, but God forbid we should fight back.

“Olivia, could you please keep an eye on the elevator and the entrance lane? It’s after rush hour so we’re unlikely to be interrupted, but it would be inconvenient.”

“Got it.”

I moved past the unconscious man and the growing pool of blood at his side. I wondered if I should do something about that, but he seemed to be breathing comfortably.

I took up position about fifteen feet from Gabriel, where I could see anyone driving into the garage or coming off the elevator.

“Who hired you?” he asked our captive.

No answer. Then a gasp, as Gabriel presumably applied pressure—literally.

“We were hired to speak to Ms. Jones,” the man said after Gabriel let up a little. “By someone who is extremely concerned about her welfare. She’s in a very precarious place right now and—”

“James,” Gabriel said, the name a growl.

The man continued, “As my associate said, it’s obvious you’ve positioned yourself as her protector. She’s vulnerable and alone. You provided a shoulder to lean on and, in doing so, you’ve influenced her perception of reality to the point where she can no longer see the truth. It’s our job to counter that influence.”

“James Morgan hired cult deprogrammers?” It’s hard to surprise Gabriel, but his voice rose with incredulity.

“We don’t like to use that word. But when undue influence is exerted over the vulnerable, intervention may be required to help the victim see the situation clearly.”

“So I’m exerting undue influence. For what purpose?”

“Money, obviously. That’s what you always want, isn’t it, Walsh?”

“If you are implying that I’m charging Olivia for my time, her account is closed. She did hire me to help investigate the deaths of two of her parents’ alleged victims. But we completed that inquiry successfully. In fact, I’m paying Olivia now, as a research assistant and investigator.”

“My associate said you were clever, Mr. Walsh, and he’s correct. Yes, you’re paying her . . . to deflect suspicion and to maintain an excuse for ongoing contact, while you continue to pursue the real prize.”

“Which would be?”

“A five-million-dollar trust fund. Which comes due when she turns twenty-five. A few months from now.”

Gabriel grunted.

After at least five seconds of silence, the man said, “You aren’t even going to deny it?”

“To whom? You’re hired help. I don’t need to convince you of anything. The very thought that anyone—however skilled a manipulator—could persuade Olivia to part with her fortune is ridiculous.”

“I offered to pay for the shirt,” I called. “But not the car. The car wasn’t my fault, and it’s insured.”

“See?” Gabriel said. “I would also point out that, given how handily she disarmed your colleague, you might be mistaken about her vulnerability. I will forgive you for that, based on your very short acquaintance with her. James Morgan has no such excuse. Beyond the fact that he’s an idiot.”

The man was silent.

“I have noticed,” Gabriel said, “that despite your unwillingness to name him as your client, you haven’t denied that he is.”

“According to the contract, I cannot identify the man who hired us. There is no provision against acknowledging it, though. He’s very concerned about his fiancée—”

“I’m not his fiancée,” I called.

“The engagement ended two months ago,” Gabriel said.

“Which does not keep him from being concerned.”

“Get proof,” I called.

“Of his concern?” the man said.

“Of his involvement,” Gabriel said. “Prove to me that James Morgan is indeed your client and I will release you.”

The man warned Gabriel that he was reaching for his phone. He passed it over. Gabriel read the screen and then waved me over to have a look.

It was an e-mail exchange with James. A little cloak-and-dagger in the wording, but the intent was clear. These men were to take me, by force, and persuade me that Gabriel Walsh was a very, very bad man. I forwarded it to both of us.

Gabriel took his foot off the man’s chest. We retrieved the gun from under the car. Or, I should say, I retrieved it. Gabriel wouldn’t fit, which I deemed a poor excuse. We left the so-called deprogrammer tending to his partner’s wounds.

CHAPTER TWO

Gabriel didn’t say a word on the walk back to the elevator, on the ride up, or even once we got through his door. I shot the bolt. At the click, he turned, as if startled, and then nodded.

He changed his shirt, walked to the window and stood there, fingers drumming against his leg. Then he came my way so fast I stepped aside. He unlocked the door and walked out.

He was in the elevator by the time I caught up. The doors were about a hand’s breadth from shutting before he stopped them and leaned out.

“You need to come with me,” he said.

“I’m trying to.”

We returned to the parking garage. Our attackers were gone. Gabriel walked to his space and stood staring at my VW.

“Um, yeah,” I said. “Your car was totaled, remember? That’s why you need me. Unless you plan to take a cab.”

He grunted. Letting someone else drive was a relinquishing of control he couldn’t abide with anyone except me and his aunt Rose.

“May I have your keys?” he asked.

“I’m going with you.”

“Of course you are. I’m not leaving you alone after that. But I’d like to drive.”

I passed them over. We got into my vehicle—an older-model Jetta that I could justify borrowing from my dad’s garage, even if it wasn’t quite up to my standards for speed and handling.

Gabriel peeled out of the garage. Or he attempted to. It’s a diesel, and when he hit the gas, he got a whine from the engine instead of a growl.

“Sorry,” I said. “If we were closer to the north end, we could swing by my parents’ place and pick up the Maserati.”

“If I thought you’d keep the Maserati, I would agree to the detour. You insist on depriving yourself—”

He clipped off the rant so hard I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had nipped his tongue.

I checked my phone. I had a good-morning text from my boyfriend, Ricky, who was in Miami on business. That business . . . well, I didn’t know and didn’t ask.

I’d met Ricky through Gabriel, whose main clients are the Satan’s Saints. It’s a biker gang—sorry, motorcycle club. Ricky’s dad runs it, and Ricky is a member. He’s also an MBA student at the University of Chicago, not as an escape from the life, but so he’ll be better prepared to take over when his father retires. I’d called Ricky last night to give him a heads-up on the accident.

I texted him back and when I looked up, we were in the city core.

“Where are we going?” I said.

“To see James.”

“You’re going to confront him at his office?” I struggled to keep my tone even.

“Yes.”

“That is . . .” I lost the battle and twisted to face him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I know you’re upset—”

“Upset does not begin to cover it.” Each word was razor-edged.

“He insulted you,” I said. “I get that.”

“I could not care less about an insult.” His ice-blue eyes swung my way. “This is about sending men to kidnap you at gunpoint.”

“If you confront him in public—”

“This requires more than a tersely worded e-mail or an angry phone call, Olivia. If I don’t confront him publicly, he will skew the story to paint me as the aggressor. I made that mistake once. I won’t do it again.”

Last week, Gabriel had confronted James at his house after James had sent me a private investigator’s dossier on every illegal and unethical thing Gabriel had ever been accused of doing. Gabriel had taken that dossier and systematically sorted it into “truth, lies, and damn lies.” He didn’t care; neither did I. What set Gabriel off was the call James made afterward, to inform him that the dossier was only the first strike, and he wouldn’t stop harassing me until I came back to him. Gabriel had briefly ended up in jail charged with assault after James’s mother had called the cops.

We stopped for a red light. When I looked up, I saw a bird sitting on the signal box.

“Gabriel?”

“Hmm.”

“What kind of bird do you see there?” I pointed.

“A robin.”

“I see a magpie.”

He didn’t say there shouldn’t be magpies in Chicago. We both knew that, just as we knew there wasn’t really one sitting on that box.

“One for sorrow,” I said. “That means you’re making a mistake.”

“Are you sure?”

“If you’re implying that I’d make up an omen—”

“I’m saying I don’t agree it has anything to do with me visiting James. You’ve had a hellish twenty-four hours. First you find out that Cainsville is populated by fae. Then you have visions and a fever. Quickly followed by Macy Shaw trying to kill us. An hour ago, you had a gun put to your head.” He waved at the bird. “One for sorrow.”

He knew that wasn’t how it worked. Omens aren’t retroactive. Yet he drove through the intersection and refused to spare me even a sidelong glance. He’d made up his mind, and no mere omen would stop him.

—

Of all the problems that came with the revelation about my notorious birth parents, the most bothersome was the media attention. I’d been a delicious story in a slow news week. And I continued to entertain. Oh, look, she dumped James Morgan. Oh, look, she’s hanging around with Gabriel Walsh. No, wait, she’s dating a biker. I was the Lindsay Lohan of the debutante set.

In the lobby of James’s office building, I felt the stares and I heard the whispers. His employees had known me before the media firestorm. To them, I wasn’t just the daughter of two convicted killers—I was the stone bitch who’d cut the heart from a really nice guy.

When we got on the elevator and Gabriel said, “Which floor?” I hesitated. He turned to the young man beside him and said, “James Morgan’s office?”

The guy pressed the button.

The elevator cleared out before the top floor. As I watched the last numbers pass, I turned to Gabriel.

“Can I handle this?” I asked. “Having you speak for me isn’t going to help.”

After a moment’s thought, Gabriel nodded. Then the elevator doors opened and we stepped off.

CHAPTER THREE

While the top floor is reserved for his company’s executives, James likes to maintain a non-corporate feel, with open areas where people can congregate. That’s where we found him, standing at the espresso machine, laughing at something one of his employees had said.

When I saw him, I felt as if I’d woken from a nightmare. The encounter with the deprogrammers was so ludicrous it couldn’t be anything but a figment of my overworked imagination. This was the James I knew, making coffee for himself and those gathered around him. Down-to-earth, easygoing, always helpful and considerate.

When James noticed me, he smiled, eyes crinkling as he turned toward me, as if thinking, Huh, that deprogramming stuff works fast. Then he spotted Gabriel, and I saw exactly what Gabriel must—something twisted and ugly simmering behind James’s eyes. No, not “something.” Obsession.

“I take it Palmer didn’t tell you he screwed up,” I said.

“Palmer?” James looked from Gabriel to me. “I have no idea what this is about, but we should talk in my office.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But if we do this in private, this time it might be me who ends up in a jail cell on charges of trespassing and assault. You may know Palmer by another name, but that seems to be the one he used in his e-mail exchange with you.” I stepped toward him. “I really don’t appreciate being held at gunpoint.”

“Gunpoint? Is this about last night? If you think I had anything to do with that—”

“I mean this morning. Yep, it happened again, and this time you had everything to do with it. Palmer confirmed you’re his client, James.” I took out my phone. “Let me forward you the e-mail where you discussed terms with him in case you’ve lost it.”

“E-mail . . . ? I’m completely lost here, Olivia, but if you have an e-mail that appears to come from me, someone has set up a dummy account.”

“It’s your personal address.”

“Then it’s been hacked or spoofed. Yes, send it to me, and I’ll have my technicians prove that.”

“I’m sure they will,” Gabriel murmured behind me.

“Is anyone talking to you?” James snapped, and when he did, several employees who’d been wandering off looked over. This didn’t sound like their boss; it sounded like a peevish little boy.

“Whatever this is, Walsh,” James said, “it’s none of your business.”

“Anytime you hire someone to put a gun to Olivia’s head and kidnap her, I’ll make that my business.”

James turned to me. “Why the hell would I hire someone to kidnap you?”

“Because, apparently, I’m being brainwashed by . . .” I jerked my thumb toward Gabriel.

“Well, that’s the first sensible thing you’ve said since you got here. I wouldn’t call it brainwashing, but it’s clearly something, and obviously someone else is as concerned as I am about it.”

“And hacked your e-mail to hire people to ‘deprogram’ me? Who would do that?”

James paused, mental wheels turning. Then he looked straight at Gabriel. “Only one person.”

“Yes,” Gabriel said dryly. “I hired men to waylay us in my parking garage.”

“I’m sure you’d use whatever scenario would allow you to play the white knight.”

“Actually, Olivia extricated herself from the situation. But your choice of wording is interesting, given that the men who attacked us used a similar phrase.”

“We know what you did, James,” I said. “We have proof. Back off. Now.”

“Or else?” James said.

“I think we’re civilized enough to avoid threats.”

“But if you’d like one . . .” Gabriel said, his voice a purring rumble. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

James stepped in front of Gabriel. When he saw he had to look up, he inched back, seemed to realize that looked bad, too, and stood his ground.

“I have no intention of abandoning Olivia,” James said. “So tell me—tell everyone here—what you plan to do about that.”

“Change your mind.”

Gabriel’s voice was low, almost soft, but the look in his eyes was bone-chilling. James took another step back and caught himself again.

“You will leave her alone,” Gabriel said. “One way or another.”

“That sounds like a death threat, Walsh.”

“Then you lack imagination.”

With that, it was time to walk away. I headed for the elevator. Gabriel followed.

—

I took the driver’s seat this time. Gabriel relinquished the keys without a word.

“I’m going to get a restraining order,” I said as we drove away. “Yes, having worked in a women’s shelter, I know they aren’t worth the paper they’re written on, but I need to establish a record of harassment.”

When he said nothing for two blocks, I asked, “You don’t think I should?”

“I agree that a record is wise. I’m just not certain I can help you obtain one.”

“No problem. I’ll do it myself.”

“I don’t mean . . .” He cleared his throat. “No matter how you obtain it, your connection with me will . . . I’ve used restraining orders in the past to establish a record of harassment against a client. Except in those cases . . .”

“Your clients weren’t actually being harassed.”

“I’ll fix this, Olivia.”

“It’s not really your problem to fix,” I said softly.

“Actually, it is. I’m the one who . . . made that deal with him.”

“To protect me and get us back together again.” Gabriel had accepted money from James, to look after me and help me reconcile with him.

“It wasn’t—” Silence. Then, “Whatever my intentions, it’s clear tha