Free The Orange Cat & other Cainsville tales by Kelley Armstrong

the view or a balcony.”
    Ricky was about to say, “We’ll take it.” Then he saw the relief on Liv’s face. She opened her mouth, and he knew “We’ll take it” was coming.
    “Nah,” he said. “We’ll wait.”
    Liv turned on him with a look. “Excuse—”
    “I know you really wanted the view and the balcony. We can wait. Well, I can. If you can’t . . .” He pointed to her bag where she’d stashed her own “penalty.” Her lips tightened. Her eyes narrowed. But those green eyes danced too, granting him a point well earned, even as she mouthed, “Bastard.”
    She turned to the innkeeper. “We’ll wait. How long until our room is ready?”
    “Less than an hour, and I have fresh oatcakes and the kettle on for tea. I am, really, very sorry. I know this looks terrible. One of our girls is unexpectedly off this week. She”—the innkeeper lowered her voice—“lost her baby.”
    “Lost it?” said a voice behind them.
    Ricky turned to see a woman working at a small desk with a calculator and ledger. She had to be in her sixties. Native American—no, Native Canadian, he corrected. She wore jeans and a concert T-shirt, her graying dark hair braided back, and on a closer look, she might have been older than he’d thought, the outfit giving her a youthful air, her strong voice adding to that impression.
    The woman continued, gaze fixed on her accounting work. “Lost implies she misplaced the child, Hildy. Maggie was taken. Stolen.”
    Ricky flashed back to the cry he’d heard in the woods.
    “Kidnapped?” Liv said, turning to the older woman.
    “If that’s what you call it,” the old woman grunted, eyes still on her ledger.
    “Oh, no, Jeanne,” Hildy said. “Don’t even say it.”
    The old woman grunted again.
    “Say what?” Liv asked.
    Jeanne looked up. “She thinks I’m going to blame the little people.” A mock glower at the innkeeper. “Which I was not. Go talking like that and folks figure we’re all a bunch of uneducated hicks. Kind of like saying you saw strange lights in the sky the night the baby disappeared.”
    Hildy flushed. “I said I saw lights . That’s all.”
    “Little people,” Liv said. “Do you mean fae?”
    Jeanne gave her a searching look. “Fae?”
    “Fairies. Sorry. Where I come from, they’re called fae.”
    Which was, technically, true, Ricky thought, if “where she came from” meant Cainsville. The local fae weren’t particularly fond of the more common term, namely because it conjured up images of, well, little people. Tiny and adorable winged creatures. Which they were not. At all.
    “I’ve heard them called that,” Jeanne said. “My granddaughter studies folklore at the university. You just don’t . . .” She shrugged.
    “Don’t seem like the type to talk about fairies?” Liv said with a laugh. “I don’t know if I believe, but I am interested in the folklore. That is what you meant, then? Little people? Fairies?”
    Jeanne’s eyes stayed hooded, as if not yet convinced she wasn’t being mocked. Or, worse, humored. “We call them little people.”
    “By you, you mean . . .”
    Ricky could see Liv struggling to finish that in a way that wouldn’t be offensive or presumptuous.
    “You mean Cape Bretoners?” Ricky said. “Or Native Canadian? Well, no, that’s the same thing, considering the Mi’kmaq were the original Cape Bretoners. Regional versus cultural would be a better way to put it.”
    Her brows lifted, impressed. Which would have been much more satisfying if he hadn’t known people took one look at him and set the bar for intelligence at the bottom rung.
    “The Mi’kmaq refer to them as the little people,” she said. “Which others have picked up.”
    “Does it mean the same thing as fairies? Refer to the same beings?” He gave his head a shake. “Sorry. We don’t mean to pester you. It’s just an area of interest for both of us. The lore. Cool that your granddaughter gets to study it. They didn’t offer anything