Gifted (Cainsville 0.6)

She laughed and headed for the fridge to take out the eggs and butter. "That bag on the table is for you. A gift for your mother for Christmas. One's from you and the other's from me. I know you never know what to give her."

This too was tradition. He suspected Rose knew perfectly well that, without her contribution, he would buy Seanna nothing. He used to, when he was little. When she still played Santa for him. Then, one year, his gifts mysteriously went missing a week later and turned up at the pawn shop, and he went home and told Seanna he didn't believe in Santa, and there was no need to continue the charade. So she stopped. And so did he. Yet Rose wouldn't let him pass a holiday without a gift for his mother.

There was only a ten-year age difference between Seanna and Rose. His mother had been like a little sister to his great-aunt. An adored little sister. While it was difficult for Gabriel to put himself in the shoes of others, he made the effort with Rose. He had come to understand that, no matter how far Seanna fell, part of her was always that little girl to Rose, who still hoped Seanna could be that again. A vain hope, but Gabriel let her have it.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

"An afternoon's work making cookies."

He slid off the stool to fetch the flour.

While the cookies baked and Rose cleaned, Gabriel wandered into the parlor. There wasn't far to wander in the tiny Victorian house. The parlor took up half the main floor space. It was like walking into the antique shop--if the shop specialized in the occult. Rose called it her collection of "old junk," but she was proud of that junk, and for good reason. The pieces were valuable relics from the history of her craft. All the ways people had sought to peer into whatever mysteries lay beyond the everyday, whether it was reading tea leaves or communicating with spirits or catching a glimpse of invisible fae.

Gabriel took down a book on Cornish folktales and laid it on the desk, as if to read, but it was only an excuse for sitting at the desk and poking through the drawer. Getting a look at Rose's cards and making sure she hadn't added to the collection since he'd last been there. She hadn't. There was the Thoth tarot and the Visconti-Sforza tarot and the Tarot of Marseilles. Her favorite--the one she used most--was a replica Victorian deck.

"Yes, a replica," she'd say with a sigh. "Not that the clients know the difference."

The problem was that an authentic Victorian-era tarot was difficult to find. Most from that period originated in France or Italy. A true Victorian tarot was rare, and she'd been hunting for years. Now Gabriel had found one.

He'd filched fifteen dollars from holiday shoppers last week. In Chicago, of course. He didn't pick pockets in Cainsville. The shopkeeper had given him five dollars for helping move things up from the basement and promised another ten for work the following week. After that, Rose would finally have her cards.

After dinner, Rose had another appointment with a mark. Gabriel went gargoyle hunting. Night had fallen, but there was no need to be wary. In Cainsville, he could walk around at two in the morning, and the biggest danger he'd face would be locals popping out to see what was wrong.

He read his notebook as he walked. Again, no danger there. He could cross the road, deep in his book, and traffic would stop. Not that he did any such thing. Only a fool tempted fate.

He studied his list of gargoyles and compared it to his hand-drawn maps. While it had seemed likely that the final gargoyle was in one of the areas where he hadn't found any, all of these areas had proven empty, and he'd developed the theory that the last gargoyle was located uncharacteristically close to another. The first would be easily spotted, and children would move on, thinking that area covered. The second would lurk above or below, visible only from a certain angle or during a certain time of day or under certain weather conditions. The solution, then, was a methodical accounting for all possibilities. Today, a light snow fell, which introduced yet another test variable.

He tramped along, snow squeaking under his shoes. A couple of kids passed by with a sled. They didn't ask him to join them. They knew he wouldn't. But they grinned and waved and called a hello, and he knew that if he wanted to go sledding, he could, and there was a comfort in that, a satisfaction, even if he'd never do so.

He continued on down Main Street, nodding at the adults who passed and lifting his head for a more respectful hello when the elders did. Without the notebook in his hand, they'd have stopped to talk, but they saw it and left him to his hunt.

Gabriel had investigated all the gargoyles on Main Street and had turned down Walnut, to take a closer look near the community center. There was one on the rear, there all the time, a sleeping gargoyle on the roof, its misshapen head on its folded arms.

"If you're quiet enough, you'll hear it snore," said a voice behind him.

"Only if there's enough of a wind to make the eaves groan."

The man sighed. "Always need a prosaic explanation, don't you, Gabriel?"

"No, but if there is one, I can't deny it."

"True." The man walked beside Gabriel and peered up. "Yes, I suppose it is the eaves groaning. How dull."

The man had a name. Gabriel didn't know it. Had never heard it. Didn't bother to ask it. If he was being honest, he'd admit that sometimes he forgot about the man altogether. If a few visits to Cainsville passed without seeing him, he'd spot him again and, for a moment, wonder who he was. More sleight of hand, this one in the mind, truth playing peek-a-boo with memory. It was Cainsville. Such things happened.

He looked at the man. He wasn't old. Perhaps college aged or a little more. He had a notebook of his own, sticking from his pocket, and he was often writing in it furiously. Gabriel's own book had been a gift from him, given for "any stories he wanted to tell." Gabriel used it for financial calculations and homework reminders and gargoyle hunting.

"Do you want a hint?" the man said, pushing his hands into his pockets and shivering against the cold.

"No. That's cheating."

"You don't cheat?" A smile played on the man's lips.

Gabriel tilted his head, considering. "It would depend on the definition of the word. In the broadest sense, everyone does. Some more than others. But cheating to reach an achievement implies that you cannot do so otherwise. That you are not good enough. While I appreciate the offer, I am quite capable of finding the last gargoyle on my own."

"You are indeed," the man said. "You're capable of doing anything you want to Gabriel. Don't you ever forget it."

"I know. Thank you."