Omens ct-1

by Kelley Armstrong

  I laughed. “Fine, I’ll willfully interpret your reappearance as a sign of good fortune, meaning I am indeed making the right choice.”

  I gave the cat a pat and rang the bell. The harsh buzz was oddly out of tone with the Victorian surroundings. The tinny voice that followed was even more jarring.

  “Hello?”

  I looked around and found a speaker hidden in the ivy.

  “Hello?” the woman’s voice said again.

  “Rosalyn Razvan?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s—” I started to say Liv Taylor, then remembered that she knew who I was. “Olivia Taylor-Jones. You wanted to speak to me?”

  “Six o’clock.”

  “What?”

  A metallic whoosh, like a sigh. “I’ll speak to you at six o’clock. It’s by appointment only.”

  “I’m not looking to buy a reading. Your card just said you wanted to speak—”

  “Six o’clock. No charge.”

  The speaker clicked off. I looked at the cat.

  “Any more advice?”

  The cat started cleaning itself, leaving me to retreat across the road.

  Seeing the cat made me decide to take a step I’d been avoiding. I went to the library and I researched “black cats and luck,” as well as every other odd thing that had happened.

  I’d wanted to forget these so-called omens. Brush them off and tell myself they meant nothing. Except they did mean something. All my gut-level interpretations of the omens matched the folklore.

  In America, we see a black cat and think its bad luck. In other places, particularly Britain, they’re considered good luck. Kill a spider? Bad luck. Stir with a knife? Causes trouble. See a cat wash its ears? A sure sign of rain.

  Which only proved that someone had indoctrinated me with this folklore at an early age, and now it was popping back up because I was remembering my past life with Pamela Larsen, the woman who’d put all that nonsense there in the first place.

  What bothered me most was the poppy. It turned out they were a death omen. I’d seen a poppy outside the door of a dead man … before I knew he was dead. Maybe there’d been no poppy. Maybe I’d smelled death and manufactured the illusion.

  Next I looked up the word “bran.” It was Welsh for raven. So I was guessing that whatever the little girl in my dream said—the line I’d regurgitated at Gunderson’s apartment—was Welsh. I had no idea what it meant. I typed a few variations into online dictionaries, but got nothing. I’m sure my phonetic guesses were nowhere close to the real spellings.

  Why was I dreaming of a girl speaking Welsh and how had my dreaming brain known that bran meant raven? Back to Pamela Larsen. Her maiden name was Bowen. Plugging that into a search told me my maternal grandmother’s name was Daere Bowen. That was Welsh, and from the unusual first name, I was guessing she was a recent immigrant. So Pamela may have spoken some Welsh and taught me. Young children were amazingly quick to pick up language.

  I did come across something else in my searches. I accidentally typed Walsh instead of Welsh. Not surprising—Gabriel was still on my brain. Turned out the similar spelling wasn’t coincidental. Walsh was a very old Irish name meaning “foreigner.” Quite literally, a Welshman. It meant nothing, of course, but after hours of researching omens and portents, I couldn’t help but see this as a sign that I was on the right path, considering him for the role of investigative partner. Or I was just desperate to believe it.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  When I rang Rosalyn’s bell at six there was a car parked in front of her house. A little old lady opened the door, and I extended my hand to introduce myself, but she walked right past me, her gaze distant, lips moving, as if talking to herself. She carried on down the walk and climbed into the passenger seat of the old Buick. After a moment, she got out and went around to the driver’s door.

  “Okay,” I murmured. “That’s not a good sign.”

  A grumble sounded behind me. “I tell her not to drive right after hypnosis. If she keeps that up, it won’t be the cigarettes that kill her.”

  I turned and thought, Snow White’s mother. I don’t mean the one from the modern telling of the fairy tale, the kindly queen who pricks her finger and wishes for a daughter, only to die and be replaced by the evil stepmother. My memories are of the real Grimm’s fairy tales and others where Cinderella’s stepmother cuts off her daughter’s toes to fit in the glass slipper and the Little Mermaid kills herself after her prince chooses someone else. Even when I learned the modern ones, I preferred the brutal and macabre old versions. I always wondered why. Now, knowing who my real parents were, I suppose that was another question answered.

  In the original telling, the jealous witch who persecuted Snow White was her real mother. When I looked at Rosalyn Razvan, that’s who I saw. She had black hair, cut in a bob, with a perfect frosting of white. Elegantly tweezed black brows. Bone-china skin. Ruby red lips.

  I knew she was Gabriel’s great-aunt, but she only looked in her late fifties. He’d inherited his height from her side of the family. She was a few inches taller than me. Military posture. Sturdily built with wide hips and ship-prow breasts.

  She had blue eyes, like Gabriel, but hers had more color. I’d say more warmth, too, but warm wasn’t a word to describe Rosalyn Razvan.

  “Your mother owes my nephew money,” she said.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

  “He worked for her in good faith, and she hasn’t paid her bills.”

  “That’s what he says, and she doesn’t deny it, so I guess it’s true.”

  “And you take no responsibility for your mother’s debts?”

  “Considering that I didn’t know Pamela Larsen was my mother until after she incurred those debts, the answer is no.”

  “If you pay him—and I know your adoptive family can afford to do so—then Pamela Larsen will repay you. Gabriel says she’s eager to renew a relationship with you. She won’t want to start by mooching off her daughter.”

  “If Gabriel put you up to this—”

  “My nephew puts me up to nothing. He is owed money. I would like to see him get it.”

  I reached for the door handle to leave.

  “It’s an easy matter to resolve, Ms. Jones. Ask Lena Taylor for the money. Or allow my nephew to make your claim on the proceeds of Pamela’s book. It will cost you nothing, and it will free you from the shadow of this debt.”

  I laughed and turned back to face her. “What shadow? My mother hired Gabriel because she’s in jail for murdering eight people. That has nothing to do with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What? I was two years old at the time. I—”

  I stopped myself. Don’t feed the crazy lady, Liv. What did I expect from a fortune-teller? I grasped the door handle again.

  “He’ll be very persistent, Ms. Jones.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will, but the guy drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. If he’s in hock, he should sell it and live within his means.”

  “My nephew lives within his means.” There was genuine annoyance in her voice now. “He’s a Walsh. We pay as we go. We owe no one.”

  “And neither do I. Which is why I wouldn’t ask my adoptive mother for the money. As for the book, I consider that stealing a debt owed to the victims.”

  She eyed me with the same intense appraisal I’d gotten from her grandnephew.

  “He’s right,” she said finally. “You have a backbone.”

  “You didn’t believe him?”

  She shrugged and put her hand on a pedestal table, letting her posture relax. “You’re an attractive young woman. Gabriel isn’t usually blinded by such things, but it is possible, combined with the equally blinding attractions of a healthy bank account and an intriguing back story.”

  “So you were … what? Seeing if you could bully the money out of me?”

  “It was worth a try. He worked for that money, and he deserves it. I understand why you don’t want to go to
your adoptive family for it, but I think you’re a fool for rejecting the book income. Pamela Larsen is your mother. You’ve been damaged by that. You will be damaged more. I don’t need the second sight to foresee that. Maybe you’ll change your mind. In the meantime…” She waved toward an open doorway. “A reading.”

  “I’m not—”

  “It’s on the house.”

  “Right. Let me guess. My future will be so much brighter if I paid my mother’s bills.”

  A harsh croak of a laugh. “That would be insultingly obvious.”

  She headed into the side room. I followed. Once I crossed the threshold, I stopped to stare. To the layperson’s eye it might look like a cheesy fortune-teller’s room, but to anyone who knew something about the history of spiritualism, it was like stepping into a museum exhibit.

  I stopped in front of a very old reproduction of a photograph, showing what looked like tiny, gauzy-winged people in the grass.

  “The Cottingley Fairies,” I murmured.

  Five photographs taken in 1917, probably the most famous “evidence” of fairies. Four were of two girls playing with little winged people. This was the fifth, without the girls. The photos were a huge sensation at the time and were taken as proof of the existence of the little people. It wasn’t until the eighties that the girls admitted they’d faked the first four photographs using cutouts of fairies from a book. On this fifth one, though, they disagreed, one claiming it was another fake and the other insisting it was real.

  How did I know this? Because the best-known article written on the Cottingley fairies was by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, published in a Christmas edition of the Strand. He’d been convinced they were real. That had been the actual subject of my master’s thesis—a reanalysis of his ultralogical famous detective in light of Conan Doyle’s interest in the otherworldly.

  “It looks real, doesn’t it?” Rosalyn said.

  “It’s a double-negative. That’s the theory anyway. The girls shot a photo of the cardboard fairies and got a double-negative of the images.”

  Another croaked laugh. “You have a very firm opinion on the subject, don’t you?”

  “I do. I could tell you my opinion of fortune-telling, too.” I turned. “I’ll warn you, prognostication is wasted on me. I had my palm read once, on a lark with friends. The psychic told me I’d marry a handsome, rich man.”

  “Which you were going to, were you not?”

  “Past tense. Meaning it was wrong, though I’m sure if I pointed that out, she’d say there’s still time. Even if I married two ugly, poor men in a row, she could tell me there was still time.”

  “It was a reasonable guess, though. She could tell you come from money. Even today, you may think you’re hiding behind department store attire, but you’re wearing a Cartier watch. Besides, a trained ear can pick up the softened midwestern accent that suggests private school. If you come from those circles, it is likely your husband will be wealthy.”

  “And handsome?”

  “Beautiful women sometimes choose unattractive men to move up on the social ladder. Again, you don’t need that. So it is a reasonable guess you will marry a man who is both wealthy and handsome.”

  “She also said I’ll have two children.”

  Rosalyn settled into a chair at the table and motioned for me to do the same. “There she was wrong. Or relying on outdated information. The current national average is less than two. Higher socioeconomic status often results in fewer children. Based on that alone, I’d have said one. However, in your case, I’d say none.”

  “Because I won’t want to pass on my tainted serial-killer genes?”

  “No, because you don’t like children.”

  When I started to protest, she continued, “Perhaps that’s too harsh. You don’t dislike them. But to you, they are like parrots. Pretty to look at, fun to play with, but you wouldn’t want to be saddled with that responsibility for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s a big leap to make for someone you just met.”

  “Not really. I don’t know who broke the engagement, you or James Morgan. The papers say he did. I suspect it was you. Pride, most likely. Either way, had you been eager to start a family, you would have tried to work it out. Also, you don’t strike me as being particularly maternal. So I would have said no children is most likely, though I would hedge my bets by adding that there is the possibility of one later in life. What else did your fortune-teller say?”

  I shrugged. “More of the same. Things she thought I wanted to hear or things she could guess. A mix of fantasy and truth.”

  “For psychics like that, it’s a con job. Anyone willing to learn to read the signs can do it.”

  “Not exactly a good promotion of your services, Ms. Razvan.”

  “It’s Walsh. Rose Walsh. Rosalyn Razvan is my professional name. In this business, people want a gypsy, not a fourth-generation Irish immigrant. You can call me Rose. As for admitting to chicanery, I was referring to psychics like the one you visited. I have the sight. I can see the futures.”

  “Futures? Plural?”

  “Of course. That’s the problem with most theories of prognostication. They presume a single future. You will marry a handsome, rich man and have two children. Is life so predetermined from birth to death, like a car on a fixed track, no room for detours, no allowance for free will? There are futures, Olivia. Possible outcomes based on choices. My gift is not the ability to predict you will marry a handsome, rich man, but to say, if you marry this particular handsome, rich man you will live a comfortable but constrained life. If you do not, your life will be fuller, but you will look back with regret. The choice, then, is yours.”

  “More life coach than fortune-teller.”

  “Yes, and I will pretend I didn’t notice the sarcasm in your tone.” She took a deck of well-worn tarot cards and fanned them before me.

  “Choose.”

  I slid one out, still upside down.

  “Now turn it over.”

  I did. It was a gorgeously rendered Victorian-era card showing a circus clown balancing on a ball, surrounded by dogs with tiny hats.

  “The fool,” I murmured. “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

  “That’s not how this works. I don’t interpret the card. You do. When you first saw it, your reaction was dismay.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You’re afraid of being played for a fool. Take another.”

  I shook my head.

  “Too revealing?” she said. “You’re uncomfortable sharing emotional reactions.”

  “No, I just—”

  “You are.” She scooped up the cards. “Now take another.”

  I did.

  A half hour later, Rose said, “I believe our time is almost up.” She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and checked it. “Yes, my next appointment will be here soon.”

  “So where’s my reading? Oh, wait. I have to pay for that, right?”

  “I already did the reading. I read you. Now you need to ask me a question.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  She met my gaze. “Really? I doubt that, under the circumstances.”

  “If you expect me to ask whether Pamela and Todd Larsen are really serial killers, I’m not going to.”

  “Good, because I have no idea. Even if I did, my answer would mean nothing to you. First, you don’t believe I have the sight anyway. Second, you would presume, whatever I say, that I have an ulterior motive. In this you need to find your own answer. I can simply help you with the smaller questions. When you have one, come back.” She stood. “My first answer will be at no cost. After that the price will escalate as I prove my worth. In the meantime, let me offer some free advice. You need protection.”

  I thought of Gabriel in the park, rubbing the griffin’s head. “Against plague?” I hooked my thumb at the Cottingley photo. “Or fairies?”

  That had her cracking a smile. “You never know when a plague may strike, Olivia. They say it’ll
be any day now. And plagues come in many forms. As do fairies. I could offer you an amulet or crystal or other protective talisman. But you’d only stick it in a drawer. For now, I’ll focus on the more prosaic dangers and strongly suggest you buy a gun.”

  “A gun?”

  “Yes, a gun. Now—”

  The doorbell buzzed.

  “Well, it seems my next appointment is early. Would you mind letting him in when you go?”

  She left the room before I could answer. I headed for the front door. Aside from that earlier bullying about Gabriel, the visit hadn’t been nearly as bad as I’d feared. Now, I could only hope she’d let him know I’d visited and that would provide just the excuse he needed to take another run at me.

  I opened the front door … and there stood the man himself.

  Chapter Thirty

  “Ms. Razvan will be with you in a moment, sir,” I said. “Please take a seat in the parlor.”

  I made a move to slip past him. Useless, of course. If Gabriel Walsh wanted to block a doorway, he just needed to stand there.

  I looked over my shoulder.

  “Yes,” he said. “My aunt let me know you were coming. I’d like to speak to you.”

  “Fine. I charge in fifteen-minute increments. Hundred bucks each.”

  “That would be my profession. For yours…” He dug loose change from his pocket.

  “Is that suppose to be a tip? Don’t expect more than five minutes of my time, and I’ll forget half your order and spill coffee on your sleeve.”

  A twitch of a smile. He pulled out a twenty. When I took it, he looked surprised.

  I shoved the bill into my pocket. “You have fifteen minutes. Walk and talk. I need the exercise.”

  As I’d expected, he was still hell-bent on selling me his services. While most lawyers hire private investigators, Gabriel’s methods were irregular—in other words, not always legal or ethical—so he undertook the fieldwork himself.

  Next came the list of credentials. His success rate was excellent, which may be a little disconcerting, considering he specialized in cases others wouldn’t touch. As my research had already revealed, he was best known as the lawyer for Satan’s Saints, a Chicago biker gang with a record so clean it was the envy of Illinois’ homegrown Outlaws.