Omens (Cainsville, #1)

by Kelley Armstrong

“Can’t tell right from wrong? Or don’t care? Because from what I know, people like that are very good at fitting in, playing a role, which suggests they know the difference, and they can pretend to abide by the rules when it suits them.” “That would be the mark of a high-functioning individual with antisocial personality disorder. They know the difference, but they see no reason to follow the rules if it doesn’t suit their needs.

If both your parents did have some form of disorder. Is it hereditary?”

“I wish I could answer that,

But psychiatry is such an imprecise science. We aren’t diagnosing cancer. Personality is a combination of genetics and learned behavior, and we have no idea how much of each explains why people do what they do.” “Nature versus nurture.” “The great debate. I can tell you th...

I think it might help to talk a bit about couples who kill. It’s rare, but your parents’ case is even rarer.” “Becau...

in every case I’ve st...

couple killings included sexual violation of the victims. These did not.” “Because they were ritual...

“Perhaps. But I would argue that the killings did not deviate entirely from the established pattern for serial killing couples. Just because the Larsens didn’t violate the victims doesn’t mean there wasn’t a ...

“You think they used the violence as a stimulant. Sadistic foreplay.” “Yes, and I think that explains the ritual aspect...

“Of course, that only applies if the Larsens were actu...

From sleepovers, Marlotte knew that Christian had been a bed-wetter until he seemed to overcome the issue around twelve. He’d never been known to kill small animals, but Marlotte did have a cat go missing once, and he seemed to recall that it happened shortly after the animal scratched Christian’s eye, a minor but extremely painful injury. While he couldn’t recall Christian committing arson, he’d been very keen on camping bonfires and always insisted on tending them.

he had an above-normal IQ—he just couldn’t seem to achieve the grades to match. As for his family, there were none of the obvious markers—no absent father, no domineering mother, no alcoholic parent, no unstable family life, much less time spent in institutions. His father obviously had a few loose wires, though.

My nephew is a manipulative, scheming, unscrupulous son of a bitch. And those are his good qualities.”

“What Gabriel has accomplished in his life is phenomenal, given the circumstances. The problem is that he knows it. Arrogance is blinding, particularly in the young. When he does make a mistake, he’s slow to see it. But he made one with you. He knows that now.”

When the elders founded Cainsville, they had actively sought to weave themselves into its fabric.

Part of weaving themselves into that fabric was quite literal. Within the oldest families—the Walshes, the Bowens, and a few others—the old blood was strong enough to produce true powers, as with Rose Walsh and, it seemed, the Larsen girl. Yet it had also had the adverse effect of bringing these gifted individuals to the attention of . . . others.

“And I serve the fairy queen, to dew her orbs upon the green.” “Midsummer Night’s Dream

“Are you a witch, or are you a fairy, or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?” “Her husband burned her to death and was found guilty of manslaughter, not murder, because he claimed she was a changeling.” “And you cannot murder a nonhuman.” Rose smiled. “The much-underutilized fairy defense.

“They’re considered the dancing place of the fair folk. If you see them, you must hurry on. Do them any harm and you are doomed to misfortune and early death. Dance with them and you’ll dance forever, trapped in their circle.”

When dealing with a bogart, one must be careful.” “Bogart . . . Right. That’s a type of brownie.”

“Didn’t I mention that I keep a sprig of hawthorn in my attic to ward off bogarts? Grace hasn’t darkened my doorstep in years.

Rose didn’t know that something had been left in my apartment. Grace had told her I suspected a break-in, Rose had guessed that something was left behind and my reaction had confirmed it. “A con artist mustn’t be afraid of being wrong,” she said as she set out a plate of ginger snaps. “We must be willing to make guesses, act as if we fully believe them to be true, and promptly dismiss them when they aren’t.”

The photo showed a dumpy old woman in mourning black, with a very recognizable “ghost” behind her. “Abraham Lincoln?” Rose nodded. “William Mumler’s photo of Mary Todd and her dead husband. And this one?”

“Again, it looks like Lincoln and . . .” I sputtered a laugh. “P. T. Barnum?” “Correct. Barnum hired someone to create that photo, which he then gave as evidence in Mumler’s fraud trial, proving how easily it could be done. Barnum may have believed there was a sucker born every minute, but apparently he didn’t think it was fair if the ‘sucker’ was a grieving relative.”

“The second sight is like the ability to see the dead. One cannot simply conjure real gh...

My power is like the ability to notice and interpret omens.”

“If one could interpret omens and portents, one would presumably have to wait for them to arrive. Like ghosts or the sight. One could not simply conjure them out of the ether.” She lifted her gaze to mine. “Can you?” “W-what?” “Is the analogy correct? Does the omen need to exist where everyone can see it? Or can one appear to you and only you?” “I don’t know—” “—what I’m talking about?” Rose sighed deeply and added milk to her tea. “All right.

“There was something like it sprinkled outside my door a few days before,” I said after I got back, as she opened the paper to reveal the grayish powder within. “I thought I detected a symbol there, too, but I was probably imagining things.

“Demon possession strains the boundaries of credulity, given the sheer number of times it seems to happen. One would really hope demons had better things to do with their time.”

“It’s a ward,” she said finally. “Very old. Gaelic or Celtic, I believe.” “To ward something off,” I said. “What? Evil? Bad luck?” “Possibly . . . depending on what someone thinks of you.” “Thinks of me?” “It’s a ward against you. A magical ‘get lost.’” “An anti–welcoming committee?”

“The cards foretold difficulty, which is why I suggested you get a gun. Cainsville has welcomed you, and Cainsville is not a welcoming place. Someone has noticed that and is either envious or concerned.”

Cainsville is a peculiar little town. As to the exact depth and nature ...

“Pay attention. That’s all I can say. Answers will come wh...

t...

“Monkshood to warn you that danger is near. Yellow carnation for rejection. Rhododendron telling you to beware.” “In other words, a no-holds-barred ‘scram and don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’

“This is Dr. Yvonne Escoda. I was contacted by the office of Gabriel Walsh, in regards to your medical files.” After the hospital visit, I’d made an offhand comment to Gabriel that I should really get my old medical records.

Mr. Walsh discovered that my father had been your primary physician. He had arranged a meeting at my office this morning to deliver your records to you.” She paused. “We do have a file for Eden Larsen. Daughter of Pamela and Todd Larsen. Born 1987.”

“It ends when you were nearly two. Your parents decided to take you to another physician. I believe they’d moved and our office was no longer convenient. Normally, the file would have been transferred, but there’s no record of that.”

The file we have for Eden Larsen can’t be yours. The child in it had spina bifida. If you were her, you’d be in a wheelchair by now, which you are not, as I understand.” “Definitely not. So your father mixed up the records?” “I . . . I cannot imagine him doing that, but someone has made an error.”

A murder of crows perched on a dead tree. The old rhyme played in my head. One for bad news, Two for mirth. Three is a wedding, Four is a birth. Five is for riches, Six is a thief. Seven, a journey, Eight is for grief.

There were eight crows.

Apparently, I could . . . I don’t know what exactly. Read the signs? Interpret omens? See portents? Was there a name for such a thing? Where would the ability come from?

“First you buy me a mocha. Then you let me help you hide a body. Now you take me to a biker clubhouse. Best. Day. Ever.”

“I overheard him offering you a ride on his motorcycle. I don’t believe you understand what that entails.” “Grass, gas, or ass. No one rides for free.” I looked over at him. “I’ve seen the T-shirt.”

Do you know what a one-percenter is?” I sighed. “Yes, Gabriel. It refers to the portion of bikers who belong to a professional motorcycle club. A gang. Ricky is one. As such, I’m going to guess that the only women who get to ride his bike are also riding him.

Mr. Gallagher runs a legitimate motorcycle club and operates a series of auto repair shops. However, he is constantly under suspicion of criminal activity, which means a relationship with his son would not be wise.”

“God, it’s like talking to a cyborg sometimes. You pretend to listen, but really, you’ve just gone on pause, waiting for me to stop so you can reiterate your original point.”

“Let me tell you a few things about addicts, Olivia. They lie. Consistently. Expertly. Pathologically. They lie to anyone who comes between them and their next high. They’ll pretend to quit. They may even actually quit. But it’s a sham. At the first opportunity, they will start using again. Anyone who believes their commitment to self-transformation will be disappointed over and over until they finally wise up and stop hoping.”

MKULTRA was a code name.

umbrella term for a wide array of CIA mind control projects starting in the fifties.