Lost Souls

by Kelley Armstrong

  Unsettled.

  His phone rang. He snatched it out to see the name of the client from this morning, the one whose call he'd forgotten to have Lydia return. One last glance around at the forest, and then he answered the phone as he strode back to his car.

  FIVE

  GABRIEL

  When Gabriel walked into Lambert's office, he found the architect working on two computers, desktop and laptop, switching from one to the other. Which seemed odd. Not that Gabriel failed to respect efficient multitasking, but from his vantage point, he could see the laptop screen, which showed what looked like a vacation-planning website, with a young couple splashing through the surf under the heading "Summer Sand Sale!"

  Seeing that advertisement, Gabriel flashed back to the night with Olivia before everything went wrong. They'd just solved the crimes for which her parents had spent the last twenty years in prison. Bittersweet victory, which they'd celebrated on the shores of Lake Michigan, walking along the surf and then drinking wine and talking about dreams and fancies. One perfect night, perfectly destroyed when--

  "Who the hell are you?" Lambert said, scrambling to his feet. The architect brushed a hand through his hair. "I mean, I'm afraid I'm not taking new clients. I'm sorry my receptionist wasn't at her desk to receive you."

  "She was."

  "Then how..."

  Lambert paused. Taking a moment. He looked as if he could use one. Or twenty. He definitely looked as if he could use the vacation displayed on his laptop. Gabriel had met with clients who appeared less harried and exhausted after a weekend in lockup.

  The firm's website photo showed Lambert as a fit and handsome forty-five-year-old, the very picture of calm and confident professionalism. The man in front of Gabriel looked as if he hadn't even changed his clothing in days. His hands shook so badly Gabriel would presume drug withdrawal if he didn't trust the state police enough to know they wouldn't have missed the signs.

  "Your receptionist seemed under the mistaken impression that I'm with the police," Gabriel said. "I merely said I needed to speak to you about Monday night."

  Lambert winced. "You're a reporter, aren't you?"

  Gabriel arched one brow and cast a pointed look down at his suit, which would not belong to any member of the fourth estate lacking a trust fund the size of Olivia's...and likely not even then, given the fashion sense of the journalists he knew.

  "No," he said slowly. "I am a lawyer, representing--"

  "Sharon." Lambert exhaled his wife's name. "She contacted a divorce lawyer."

  "No, but given the circumstances, I can see where you'd be concerned about that."

  Lambert flushed. "It's a misunderstanding. It was raining, and this girl was hitchhiking. I wanted to help."

  "I'm sure you did," Gabriel murmured. "However, I have to wonder why you would tell your wife. Why you'd tell anyone."

  Panic flashed behind Lambert's eyes. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Inhaled and straightened, as if this really was such an obvious question it didn't require a response.

  "I had to warn them, didn't I? Report the girl missing?"

  "The girl disappeared into thin air. That's what you told--"

  "I was mistaken. People don't vanish. Not outside cheap magic shows." A forced hearty laugh. "The police misunderstood."

  "You told them multiple times--"

  "They misunderstood. I meant that she wandered off into the forest while I was checking the car. I was concerned. Understandably concerned."

  "About that forest... You drove several hundred feet off the road, through thick brush, in a very expensive vehicle."

  "It's an SUV. It's meant for that. I was just driving the girl home."

  "She lives in the forest?"

  Sweat beaded on Lambert's temple. "I mistakenly believed it was a narrow road. That's what she said. It wasn't until I got stuck that I realized otherwise."

  "You also reported that you believed you'd driven no more than ten miles off the regional highway when, in fact, you went more than thirty."

  "I lost track of time. She was a very good conversationalist."

  "What did you talk about?"

  The drop of sweat slid down Lambert's jaw. At this point, all he had to say was that his conversation was none of Gabriel's business. But human nature hungered for confession.

  "You've been asked to keep this quiet, haven't you?" Gabriel said. "Asked--strongly--to recant your story. By your partners in this firm."

  "No, of course not." A nervous glance toward the door. "Why would you say that?"

  "Don't insult my intelligence, Mr. Lambert. I'm not a reporter. I'm a servant of the law"--roughly speaking--"trying to uncover the truth with no interest in embarrassing anyone. You claim to have seen a ghost. I am not disputing that claim. I simply wish to establish facts, and lying to me will not help your case."

  "Case?"

  A rap at the door. A portly, graying man stuck his head in. "Everything all right, Robert?"

  "Yes," Gabriel said. "I'm here to discuss the woman Mr. Lambert encountered Monday evening. The one who went missing. We may have a lead on her, and I thought he should know."

  "A lead? Excellent. Sorry to have interrupted, then."

  The door closed, and Lambert exhaled. "Thank you."

  "No need. As I said, I'm not interested in exposing you to ridicule. Now, let's back up. Why did you report this to the police?"

  "I-I don't know."

  Gabriel eyed the man. Noted the widening of his eyes. The tremble in his jowl. The jaw working until he blurted, "I honestly don't know. I just called. I told my story, and it wasn't until hours later that I realized how ridiculous it sounded. It just--it made sense at the time. Like reporting that I'd been mugged. Why wouldn't I?" A sharp laugh. "Because I claimed to have seen a ghost? Claimed not to know how I ended up hundreds of feet off the road? Said I'd experienced some sci-fi time lapse? I know how crazy all that sounds now, but at the time, it made perfect sense."

  Lambert took quick, short breaths, leaning against his desk, shuddering with the relief of his confession.

  "Maybe I do need a psych eval," he said finally.

  "I believe a more thorough drug test might have been more useful."

  Lambert looked up. "If you're implying--"

  "It would seem clear to me that you were suffering from the effects of a drug you didn't realize you'd ingested. That this girl injected you with something."

  Lambert collapsed back into his chair. "Yes, that's it. That must be it."

  While this was one possible explanation, the police would have been looking for signs of drug consumption. So why offer Lambert a rational explanation? Because it was easily done. Lambert's state of mind was not Gabriel's concern, but there wasn't any reason not to offer an explanation that would put the architect at ease.

  Olivia would be pleased.

  That was what Gabriel thought. Not that he was glad he could ease Lambert's mind, but that it would please Olivia.

  See, I am capable of considering others.

  Just as long as it's not terribly inconvenient to do so.

  Gabriel motioned at the laptop. "I presume those are vacation plans for you and your wife?"

  Again, Lambert could say it was none of Gabriel's business, but that peck of altruism had bought a bushel of goodwill, and Gabriel could see that in Lambert's face, as open and relaxed as if he'd downed three shots of Scotch.

  Lambert nodded. "I have to fix this."

  "Fix the situation with your wife."

  Lambert's hands started to tremble again, that panicked look returning as he said, "I'm running out of time."

  "Time?"

  "Forty-eight hours," Lambert murmured. "I only have forty-eight hours."

  "Until what?"

  Lambert's head jerked up. "Hmm?"

  "You said you only had forty-eight hours. Until what?"

  Lambert's brow creased, as if Gabriel's words sounded familiar, but he couldn't place them. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you mean.
" He checked his watch, and he pulled over his laptop. "I really need to get back to work."

  "You mean you need to get back to booking that vacation."

  "Yes, I'm running out of time." Lambert blinked, seeming confused. "For the sale. I'm running out of time for the sale."

  "I see."

  "I lost my way. I need to get back on track."

  The hairs on Gabriel's neck rose. "Back on track?"

  That look again from Lambert. The one that made Gabriel feel as if he were working from a different script in this scene.

  "What?" Lambert said.

  "You said you'd lost your way and needed to get back on track."

  More confused blinking, and Gabriel imagined Lambert peering at his script, wondering where that dialogue came from.

  "Back on track for work," he said, quickly and firmly resolving the matter. "I need to get back to work, and I'm afraid I must ask you to let me do that. Good day, Mr.... What did you say your name was again?"

  Gabriel turned and walked out of Lambert's office.

  SIX

  PATRICK

  Patrick knew his son did not play well with others. That wasn't a trait he'd learned from either parent, but rather--he feared--from experience.

  Seanna might have liked to surround herself with friends and admirers--or, as she'd call them, marks and dupes--but Patrick suspected she'd have seen no reason to encourage her son's socialization. In fact, she'd have likely discouraged him from making friends because it might prove inconvenient to her. She wouldn't want kids snooping around, getting underfoot, scaring off those dupes and marks, and possibly showing her young son that pickpocketing and petty theft were not skills most parents taught their offspring.

  So Gabriel did not play well with others. He lived alone. Started his own law firm straight out of school. Only hired Lydia when doing administrative work began to impede his earning potential. But he didn't work with Lydia. No one earned that spot until Gabriel had met a certain former socialite with serial killer parents.

  With Liv away, Patrick had hoped Gabriel missed the experience of working closely with another person. Another person like Liv--clever enough, resourceful enough and devious enough to keep up with Gabriel. A person like Patrick.

  Evidently not.

  Patrick had spent most of yesterday composing a ghost story for his son. Supplementing what he found online. Adjusting facts. Photoshopping articles to better support the story he wished to tell.

  It was, truly, a creative masterpiece. And Gabriel wanted nothing to do with it. He'd refused the file of carefully curated--and constructed--evidence.

  Just the facts, sir. Give me the facts, and I'll research them on my own.

  Which meant that, at any moment, his son was going to discover his "case" was nothing more than a conveniently timed example of an urban legend in action.

  Worse, Patrick had triggered Liv's suspicions. She'd called last night to find out what he was up to, knowing there was no way in hell he needed this for book research. She suspected he was trying to wriggle into his son's good graces while she was away, unable to intervene.

  She'd also inadvertently tipped him off to Gabriel's night-time visit to the scene. Which meant Gabriel was actively investigating. Without Patrick. Robbing him of the opportunity even to prepare special effects for his visit.

  Now Gabriel was interviewing Robert Lambert. Alone. Patrick had called for an update, and Gabriel had said he was "working the case" and, when pressed, admitted he'd be conducting interviews today. While he hadn't said whom he planned to interview, it didn't take keen deductive reasoning to realize the top spot would go to the guy whose claim started this investigation.

  So Patrick had set up shop in yet another coffee house, this one right across from the architect's office building. He didn't even need to watch out the window. When Gabriel arrived, Patrick noticed--saw the movement in the crowded sidewalk as it cleared. Gabriel had that effect on people. Even those who wouldn't normally clear the way for a guy in an expensive suit changed their minds after one look at Gabriel. Six foot four. Built like a linebacker. With a face better suited to the kind of guy who'd pick you up, put you against the wall and say his boss expected payment now.

  Gabriel himself never seemed to notice the parting of the tide, too intent on his destination. Patrick watched him walk into Lambert's building. Then he packed away his laptop and went outside to wait.

  SEVEN

  GABRIEL

  I lost my way.

  I need to get back on track.

  On their own, those words wouldn't have done more than unsettle Gabriel, as they echoed the very memory he'd revisited the night before. He would analyze that at a more appropriate time and consider the likelihood it was a coincidence. Most people would say it was. To presume otherwise indicated the sort of thinking that allowed his great-aunt, Rose, to flourish as a psychic. People like to see connections in coincidence--it's a way to imagine control in chaos. But while Rose might take advantage of magical thinking, she did have the sight, a gift of their fae blood. So Gabriel knew better than to automatically reject anything beyond the normal realm of possibility. He suspected it was unlikely that he'd just happened to relive that particular memory in the very place where he'd been investigating a man who now repeated almost the same words.

  The location had prompted Gabriel's memory for a reason. That, however, could be dealt with later. What kept those words cycling through his head was the rest of it. Lambert speaking without realizing what he was saying. Lambert frantically trying to "fix" his marriage. Talking about having forty-eight hours to do it. Not knowing why he'd been compelled to report the story to the police.

  Compelled.

  An interesting word.

  A fae word.

  Compulsion.

  As Gabriel stepped from the office building, someone moved into his path. Which struck him as odd. People were normally so much better about getting in the way of others.

  Then he saw who it was.

  "Patrick."

  "Looks like you beat me to it."

  Gabriel arched his brows as he steered past the bocan.

  "I was going to interview Lambert for you," Patrick said, hurrying to keep up. "Save you some time."

  "No, that would have doubled the work. When I say I am conducting interviews, it is not a hint for you to do them yourself."

  "Well, since I'm here, why don't we grab a coffee--"

  "I've had enough caffeine for today."

  "I meant we could talk."

  "No need. I will update you when I have..." Gabriel slowed as he remembered what he'd been thinking before Patrick waylaid him. Fae compulsion. "Actually, I would like to speak, though briefly. I have a full schedule."

  "Have you eaten lunch?"

  "No, nor do I plan to." Gabriel spotted a coffee shop across the road. "I'll have something there while we speak."

  "Not that one," Patrick said quickly. "Health violations. I see one farther down."

  Gabriel checked his watch.

  "It's a sixty-second walk, Gabriel. Thirty at your speed."

  "All right. I can spare fifteen minutes."

  "How about twenty?"

  "I bill in fifteen-minute increments. Twenty would double the price."

  "You're charging me for coffee?"

  "Of course not. You can buy your own."

  "That's not lunch, Gabriel," Patrick said as they took seats. "It's not even solid food."

  "It's a mocha, which provides an efficient way to replenish my blood sugar while I talk."

  "Have you ever had a mocha?"

  "No, but Olivia is fond of them." Gabriel took a sip.

  "Yeah..." Patrick said as Gabriel struggled not to make a face. "A little sweet? Learning to like mochas isn't going to help you get back with Liv. If you want my advice--"

  "Preferably not." Gabriel paused. "No, sorry. I meant absolutely not."

  "Your sense of humor--"

  "--is nonexistent. Twelve minutes." />
  "We haven't started talking."

  "You haven't stopped." Gabriel gulped the mocha over his stomach's protests. Then he set down the cup. "I wish to know more about fae compulsion."

  "So I'm paying you to ask me questions?"

  "That's how it works. Questions allow me to refine my investigation. Mr. Lambert claims--"

  "Lambert saw a ghost, not a fae."

  "Does that mean you can confirm the existence of ghosts?"

  "Sure."

  "That hardly sounds confident."

  "Theoretically, ghosts could exist. I've heard they do. Just never seen one. Liv did, though, right?"

  "If you are referring to James, yes, she saw him. Or a vision of him. Or, because she can see visions, she may have been able to see his spirit when others would not. None of that is proof of ghosts. We do, however, have proof of fae."

  "It's a ghost, Gabriel. It disappeared. Fae don't disappear."

  "Spriggans? Cw^n Annwn?"

  "Spriggans can appear to vanish by melding with their surroundings. Camouflage. That only works at a distance. The girl was right in front of Lambert. Cw^n Annwn can trick the eye to, again, appear to vanish. But this was a woman. Terribly sexist, our Wild Hunt. The only woman who rides with them is Mallt-y-Nos. Matilda. Which is Liv."

  "My point was not that this woman is either spriggan or Huntsman, but that you are incorrect in saying no fae can appear to vanish."

  "She isn't fae," Patrick said. "She's a ghost. If you read that research I compiled--"

  "Not necessary. I draw my own conclusions based on facts. In this case, I have an eyewitness account."

  "As a defense attorney, you should know eye witnesses are notoriously unreliable."

  "Only when their testimony does not support my case. In which case, I simply provide experts who will argue the opposite. If you insist on disregarding this particular witness, though, then perhaps the woman didn't vanish into thin air after all, which seems to be your primary proof that she's a ghost."

  "Huh?" Patrick shook his head. "No wonder you're good at your job. I have no idea what you just said."

  "Excellent, then you won't mind humoring me when I say she could be fae, and therefore I need to know more about compulsion. Hypothetically, can a fae plant a subconscious command?"