The Orange Cat and Other Cainsville Tales (Cainsville 3.5)

"Gabriel's coming to Cainsville for Calan Gaeaf," Veronica said. "Rose mentioned it last night."

Patrick sipped his wine and let the tingle of it slide through him before he gave a noncommittal, "Hmm."

Veronica leaned forward, treating him to an even better view of her breasts, black hair tumbling over them. "That doesn't work on me, bocan. I know you've been waiting to see him."

"I've changed my mind."

"Have you now?"

Patrick swirled the wine in his glass. "I have other plans. I'll be away."

"Will you?"

"That seems best."

"Does it?"

He met her green eyes. "It does."

She studied him, tilting her head, and he knew his nonchalance didn't fool her for a second. Not Veronica. But after a moment, she said. "If you think it's best."

"I'll wait until he's older. Less angsty. More interesting." He put down his empty glass. "Now, speaking of interesting, let's see if we can find a way to pass the time before my early morning flight. I have, apparently, agreed to a book tour."

LADY OF THE LAKE

Prologue

Humans at her swimming hole. There should not be humans at her swimming hole. Did they not know the place was haunted? Cursed? She'd spent nearly a century weaving the legend. Each scenario meticulously crafted--a spine-tingling cry in the forest, a hard tug on a swimmer's leg, picnic baskets vanished, clothing rent as if by some wild beast.

Hard work. Frustrating work. Endless work it had seemed at the time. Sometimes they would run back to their village, trembling in horror. Other times, they'd laugh it off as too much strong ale and imagination. Worse, some would come in hopes of those eerie cries and leg tugs and vanished belongings. But she'd kept at it. One hundred years of effort.

And now?

Now there were humans at her swimming hole. Not simply passing but lingering. Which never happened.

It wasn't just the stories that kept them away. Those only frightened the locals who heard them. Visitors came, too, wandering past. Yet they'd never stay more than a moment or two, overcome by a sense of unease. A sick feeling in the gut. A voice deep in their heads, whispering to run. Then screaming it. When they reached town, they'd hear of the haunted swimming hole and say, "Yes! I was there," and tell their stories, adding to the legend.

Yet here were two humans, on the rocks above her swimming hole, laughing and talking, not the least bit fazed.

She crept through the trees and then scaled one for a better look.

They'd come on a motorcycle. A loud one that had warned her of their arrival even before they pulled off the highway a mile over. Then they'd hiked and found her hole.

She could hear a woman talking, but from her hiding spot in the tree, she could see only her back as she stood on the diving rock over the swimming hole.

The man sat in front of his companion. Resting on the ground, leaning against a tree, his legs pulled up. He wore blue jeans and a T-shirt. His hair was a lighter blond than the girl's. When he pushed it back, she saw his face. A very pretty face on a very pretty boy. That would be enough to catch her interest. She had a weakness for pretty human boys. But this one . . .

There was more to this one. Something that made her feel . . .

Intrigued? Uneasy? Both at once. Something about him that both pulled her closer and warned her back. Like the swimming hole itself when she had first found it.

She shifted for a better look at the boy. He was a boy. A young man. And yet he did not feel young.

A glamour then? Could these be fae disguised as human?

She narrowed her eyes, looking for the telltale shimmer, but she saw none. Yet they did exude a faint glow.

Fae blood, then. But that would not explain the contradictory aura the boy gave off, of dangerous attraction, of youthful maturity.