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"--has been misconstrued. It's a pixie. And I believe she's here, attempting to lure me somewhere."
"Wha--? No. I have no idea what this is, but if you think you're being pixie-led, get out of there. Do not pursue."
"I'm not. I'm coming to you. I'll call when I'm close."
Gabriel hung up. He shoved the phone into his pocket and turned the corner, onto the street and--
And he was not on the street. He was in another alley.
He looked behind him to see an alley. He'd stepped from one into another, which made no sense at all. He could not be at the juncture of two--
But he was. He must not have been paying enough attention as he initially followed the pixie, and he'd walked from one alley to another without realizing it.
No matter. He'd continue down this one and--
He turned the next end to see yet another alley. And the homeless man on the curb. As Gabriel walked by, the man lifted a grimy ball-cap and peered at Gabriel with impossibly bright green eyes.
"You lost, sir?"
Gabriel looked up and down the alley.
"No, I don't believe I am."
"Then you're wrong, Gabriel Walsh." The man smiled up at him. "You're very, very wrong."
TWENTY-THREE
PATRICK
Pixies? Really? Well, no, not really. Patrick remembered when Freud came out with his theories, and suddenly everything from bedwetting to homicidal rage could be explained by an unhealthy love for one's parent. That's what Gabriel was doing. He'd discovered the existence of fae, and so everything inexplicable could be explained by that.
Patrick shook his head as he continued walking through the cemetery, searching for Olivia.
Gabriel must have done an Internet search on "fairy" and "lost" and gotten "pixies." You would really think a lawyer would know to be more critical with his online research. Yes, if this were fae, a pixie would fit, but if Patrick honestly believed it could be one, he'd be a lot more worried.
Pixies were one of the most malicious subspecies. Oh, sure, they got great press--probably the result of some forward thinking when humans first came into contact with fae. Let's make ourselves look as cute and innocuous as possible! Fae overall had done that well--with the exception of subspecies like his own--but none had managed it better than the pixies.
Pixie dust. Pixie sticks. Pixie haircuts. Magical. Sweet. Childlike. The terms associated all that with the creatures themselves, as tiny and innocent fae. Which could not be further from the truth.
Most fae subspecies enjoyed a good prank. Those ranged from harmless to annoying, rather like human ones. For a prank to turn cruel, a person had to deserve it. Pixies, though? They started with cruel and worked up.
But this wasn't a pixie. It was Christina Moore, who could not be a pixie. Patrick had investigated that possibility when he first learned they actually seemed to be dealing with a ghost. Could Christina have been a fae, who appeared to die and came back? No, she had a human family and a birth record. She had been human. And she had died. And now she'd come back--as a ghost, not a pixie, which would be all kinds of impossible.
Speaking of impossible...
Patrick peered around the darkness.
No Liv here. No Liv there. No Olivia anywhere.
He wasn't too concerned. He'd called Gabriel mostly to cover his ass. Liv's vision states were just one of her Matilda powers. They pulled back the veil for her, not unlike his live-action reference books. She stepped in and saw something--past or present--that helped her understand her situation. Sometimes she lost consciousness. Sometimes she wandered beyond the veil. Gabriel might panic over the fevers, but it made no sense if visions meant to help her could also prove lethal. Nature didn't work that way.
Patrick would, however, like to find Liv before Gabriel arrived. Present her to him, safe and sound.
If I were a ghost, where would I go?
That was hardly helpful. If Patrick were a ghost, he'd go every place he couldn't otherwise. He'd peer into lives he could never inhabit, see people in their realities rather than the projected images they showed for others. As a ghost, he imagined he could spend centuries just listening and observing. That was the writer in him.
Christina Moore was not a writer. For a musician, she didn't even seem terribly imaginative, given that she was a ghost lurking in a cemetery.
