A twist of a smile, one that mirrored Arawn's so well I shivered. "Was he being a jerk?"
No. Arawn was never a jerk in my visions. Not Arawn nor Gwynn. Not even in that terrible last one, when they'd forced Matilda to choose. Not jerks. Just young men, a little arrogant, a little frightened, a little angry, both struggling to hold on to her, only to both lose her.
"We were riding and..." I shook my head. "Never mind. Details aren't important."
He tugged me down as he stretched out on his back. "I'd like to hear them."
I hesitated. Then I told him everything I remembered, from the thunder of the horse's hooves to the baying of the hounds. This is the dilemma, the contradiction we cannot resolve. We do not want to be them. Yet we are fascinat
ed by them, because every detail tugs at a buried memory. It's like smelling balloons and getting a flash of a forgotten birthday party, and as I talked, Ricky pulled me against him, both of us sharing those tugs of memory.
I told him the rest, too, about the lamiae and the older Arawn and Gwynn.
"Well, that's bullshit," he said.
"Telling me to ignore the lamiae?"
"No, that's just pointless, which they seemed to realize. The bullshit is that lamia saying you aren't paying attention to their deaths. You almost died working their case."
"Maybe it's my subconscious then? Making me feel like I'm not working hard enough?"
"I'd buy that. I also get where Arawn and Gwynn are coming from--whether they were visions or subconscious manifestations. The lamiae aren't your responsibility. And, no, I'm not telling you to stop investigating. But maybe..."
"Holding the Tylwyth Teg and the Cwn Annwn to my timetable isn't helping anyone. I'm pushing them off because I don't want to deal with it."
"You were giving yourself mental space. Which you needed. If two more months helps, then screw the dreams. They might very well just be your subconscious, expecting too much of yourself. As usual."
"Hmm."
He slid his hands under my arms and pulled me onto him.
"You do," he said. "You have a very high set of personal expectations. It's not necessarily a bad thing...except when you beat yourself up for not meeting them."
He kissed me before I could answer, a slow and wonderful kiss, his hands sliding up my back, warming my chilled skin, and I lifted my hands to his hair, wrapping my fingers in it and kissing him back and--
My phone rang. Ricky let out a growl, and I chuckled.
"It's no one on my ring-tone list," I said. "Therefore I can safely ignore it."
I kissed him again, but before I closed my eyes, his gaze shifted toward my phone on the nightstand. I sighed and pulled back.
"You want me to answer?" I said.
"I think that the fact an unknown number is calling at three in the morning might not be something to ignore."
I reached for the phone, but he beat me to it, picking it up and saying, "May I? If it's nothing, I'd like to give them proper hell."
I smiled. "Go for it."
He answered with a grunted, "Hello," devoid of his usual charm. He held the phone far enough from his ear for me to hear.
"Wh-who is this?" a young female voice asked.
"Ricky Gallagher."
"Arawn," the voice breathed, exhaling the name, and Ricky stiffened.
"It's Ricky," he said.