Rough Justice (Cainsville 5.5)

"And she did?"

"Yep. But she also quickly mentioned the other one, saying Alan gave it away a while ago, and she knows nothing about that...naturally. My guess is that Alan got his brother-in-law to scrap it. As for the police report of the accident, I was still trying to figure out exactly where the accident happened, so I would know which contact to bribe it from. Add all that together, though, and I have no doubt that the Nansens killed Johnson's wife. Alan was driving, and Heather tried to get out and go help, but he stopped her, which I suppose makes Alan more liable, though Johnson still wants revenge against Heather."

"So it seems."

"The problem now is...well, I still don't like it. As Cwn Annwn justice, I mean. In fact, I'd say it kind of sucks. Technically, Johnson is responsible, so I guess it qualifies but..."

"In a court of law, Keith Johnson would have a jury's sympathy, but he would still be charged. This was a meticulously planned revenge."

"And for that, he'd get life?"

"No. Given the circumstances, I would expect a severely reduced sentence. You were hoping he was fully culpable. This is complicated and uncomfortable."

"Putting it mildly," she murmured.

"I'll speak to Ioan."

"Thanks, but this is on me. I have to work this out with him, which will probably mean going on that Hunt and watching... Shit."

"That is unacceptable. Ricky will agree. However much he might trust the Cwn Annwn, this goes too far. I want to speak to Ioan and confirm that this would be a proper case of Cwn Annwn justice as it stands now."

"You think there's more to it?"

"I think that, either way, you need that information. I would like to try getting it from him myself. May I do that?"

"All right."

Eighteen

Olivia

Did Johnson's case qualify as Cwn Annwn justice? It was rough justice, to be sure, but absolute justice, too. Ioan had hinted in the past that they didn't consider extenuating circumstances, and I hadn't thought much of it. To me, that term implied excuses. Like using the defense of intoxication. Unless someone poured that booze down your throat, you were still responsible for your actions because you chose to drink, knowing that alcohol impaired judgment.

But what if someone did pour it down your throat? Would Cwn Annwn justice still call you responsible?

I could say it was old-world justice, but was it? I knew enough history to understand the concept of a blood debt. If you killed my wife, I had the right to exact a price, and it might be fifty head of cattle or it might be your wife or it might be your life. That was the world that gave birth to the Cwn Annwn.

If Keith Johnson caused Alan Nansen's death for a less righteous reason, I'd accept Ioan's judgment. I didn't care whether Johnson pulled that trigger or not. But if he spurred Heather on as revenge for his wife... I really struggled with the idea that he deserved to have his throat ripped out by a giant hound.

I chose to help both the Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn because I believed it was the right thing to do. Divide my power between those who offered fae sanctuary and those who offered fae justice, both equally righteous causes. Yet there was a reason I couldn't choose just one, and it wasn't about righteous causes at all. I made a promise to Ida, the leader of Cainsville, before she died saving me. I promised I would not abandon the Tylwyth Teg. But while Ida saved me, her sacrifice wasn't for me--it was about winning me for her town. The Cwn Annwn had done more for me. They had been honest and fair, so I had to be the same in return.

I had not dug deeper into the ramifications of my promise to the Cwn Annwn because I feared if I did, I would second-guess my decision, and they did not deserve that. I'd put on my blinders and said, "Sure, I'm okay with hunting killers," and hadn't stopped to consider what exactly that might entail.

Now I had to.

I drove home to Cainsville and walked to the diner. A man sat at the corner table, windows on two sides, the best seat in the house. Not that he noticed--his gaze was glued to his laptop screen as his fingers flew over the keys. He looked about my age, sharp-featured, dark hair to his shoulders, goatee, dressed in jeans and boots, needing only a man-bun to complete the look of a cafe poet, laboring on his latest ode to cold-brewed coffee.

I picked up the coffee pot from the serving station. It was the regular stuff--no cold-brew here, where you'll get a scowl if you ask for decaf. The owner--Larry--smiled and said nothing as I took the pot. I walked up behind Patrick and, without looking from his keyboard, he lifted his mug.

"My favorite server returns," he said.

I filled his mug, returned the pot and slid into the seat across from him. "I need access to your books."

"Lovely to see you, too, Liv. How are you? And how is my son? I haven't seen him around in a few days."

"I filled your coffee, bocan, which buys me a ticket past the small talk."

Patrick lifted a brow. "No, I believe the coffee buys you access to that seat. Small talk is still required, to make me feel like a valuable ally rather than your personal librarian."