The Orange Cat & other Cainsville tales Read Online Free PDF Page A

enough to assuage vanity, but ordinary enough to pass undetected.
    There were ways to hide glamours, though. And there were also humans who knew about the fae world.
    So what are you, Lisa Grant?
    And what is your game?
    That old curiosity urged him to play this out, see what she was up to. But he hadn’t lived to this age by taking unnecessary risks.
    “Got it!” she said. “The Chicago Patrons of the Arts Contribution to Literary Culture award.”
    “That’s quite a mouthful.”
    “It is. Do you want me to write it down?”
    “Please.”
    She took out a small pen and pad from her purse. As she wrote out the name, he slipped up beside her, so when she rose to hand it to him, he was right there, and she jumped with a soft, “Oh!” Then she reddened and held out the notepaper.
    He took it. He didn’t step back, though. He met her gaze and looked deep into her eyes and called on his powers of fae compulsion.
    “I want you to know how much I appreciate this, Lisa,” he said. “Authors like me don’t get this sort of honor, and we may pretend we don’t care, but there is nothing quite as satisfying as artistic recognition. You went the extra mile for me, and I appreciate it.”
    She blushed furiously. Human, then. Which would make this easy. The problem with compulsion is that it cannot make someone act against their will. But if the person is already leaning in that direction . . .
    “Could you do me a huge favor?”
    She nodded mutely.
    He took off his blazer and held it out. “Would you hang this in the closet over there?”
    She hesitated, this clearly not being what she expected. He met her gaze again, holding it and saying, “I would very much appreciate that.”
    Another fierce blush and she took his jacket. She walked to the door he’d indicated and opened it. Inside was a small dark room filled with janitorial supplies.
    “I, uh, don’t think this is a coat room.”
    He walked up behind her. “It is. There’s a rack right in there. See it?”
    She stepped in . . . and he shut the door behind her and turned the lock.
    #
    Locking Lisa in the closet was not his revenge. That would come later, when he figured out who was looking for him and why. Right now, he just needed to get out.
    He didn’t take the rear door. There was always the chance—probably a good one—that Lisa wasn’t working alone. He turned down one hall and then another, looking for the elusive Exit sign. Then he spotted an arrow pointing to the theater. He jogged along the hall until he reached a door marked Stage.
    He glanced around. The hall was still empty. He thought he’d caught the faint sound of Lisa banging on the door, but he was far enough away that it had faded.
    He ducked through the stage door and walked past the curtains—
    There were people in the theater.
    At least a dozen of them seated in the old chairs. When he walked out, one began to clap. Another, just coming through the doors, hurried to a seat as she checked her watch. A middle-aged woman in the front row let out a chirping squawk and scampered to the side steps, whispering loudly, “Mr. Rhys, it’s not time!” as she motioned him back behind the curtain.
    Patrick paused for a moment, during which he had a flashed mental image of some macabre ceremony, human practitioners of the black arts who’d tracked down a live fae and lured him in and were about to sacrifice him—
    “Mr. Rhys?” the woman whispered again.
    He looked out into the audience. Fifteen people sat there. Fifteen very ordinary people. Most clutched copies of his books.
    Off to the side, three college-aged girls whispered amongst themselves and he caught, “Oh my God, it’s him!” and, “He’s cute.” One of the few men in the audience lifted a hand in sheepish greeting. Someone else snapped his picture.
    Okay, perhaps not a sacrificial ceremony. He may have written one too many of those sort of scenes.
    The woman propelled him behind the curtain. “Carla Yee. I work for the