The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7)

by Kirsten Weiss

Do you believe in evil?

  And now she’d brought evil to an innocent young man. She’d brought it to her door. The gorge rose in her throat.

  “Something wrong?” King asked.

  She shook her head.

  “This way.”

  She followed him down the hall and into the main room.

  He stopped beside a desk.

  The young uniformed officer behind it jumped up, running his hand through his curling brown hair. “Sir?”

  “Sergeant McAdam will take you home,” the sheriff said. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mrs. Mosse.” He strode through the swinging door into the reception area.

  The Sergeant shrugged into a lightweight blue jacket with a badge emblazoned on the chest. “So where do you live?”

  She told him.

  His eyebrows rose, but he smoothed his face. “The squad car’s out back.”

  On the drive, they made small talk, leaving her mind free to wander to Mrs. Norton, the liquor store, the man she’d gotten killed. There was no making this right, no taking it back. Her fingernails bit into her palms. The best she could aim for was justice.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Riga asked Sergeant McAdam to drop her at the gate. But instead of walking down the long drive to the house, she veered right, onto an earthen path into the pines. A chipmunk scurried before her on the sun-dappled ground and vanished up a tree.

  She passed between two broad sugar pines, and a tingle of energy rippled through her, an invisible magical wall. She’d designed her wards to block dark magic, and they were working as they should. But her churning stomach drove her onward to check each magical pole. No matter what else happened, she needed to know her children would be safe.

  A gust of wind sighed in the branches, and something thudded to the soft earth. A pinecone rolled to her feet. Riga kicked it into a manzanita bush.

  She turned off the path and stopped within a circle of pines. Riga knelt before the first energetic pole, a flat stone. Dusting brown pine needles from its surface, Riga held her palm above the pale stone. Its energy warmed her hand, turned it hot. She walked on, checking the other wards.

  Footsteps crunched on dried pine needles, and Riga looked up.

  Pen stood in a wide sunbeam falling upon the sixth ward. The light flamed around her tousled hair. She studied a pine cone in her hand and shook her head.

  Riga’s chest tightened, and she hurried across the sloping ground to her niece. “Is anything wrong?”

  Pen tossed the pine cone aside, and it thudded to the needle-shrouded ground. “The ward you mean? It’s fine. I thought you had to recharge the wards on a regular basis, but I never see you do it.”

  “That’s because I use a generator.”

  “A generator? A magical one, you mean? How—”

  “I’ll give you a full lesson later. Right now, I need to double-check the other poles.”

  Unmoving, Pen stared at her. “Why? If one wasn’t working, they’d all be affected, wouldn’t they?”

  This was true. But Riga had already made one terrible mistake, and she didn’t want to take chances.

  “I heard you witnessed a shooting,” Pen said, her gray eyes serious. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.”

  “Yes,” Riga said.

  Pen didn’t ask for details. She simply stood, watching, and fragments of tension eased from Riga’s shoulders.

  “What’s with the pine cone?” Riga asked.

  “Oh. I’ve been told I need to work at seeing the world as if for the first time. I’ve never really looked at a pine cone before.” Her brow furrowed. “Their design is kind of amazing.”

  “Well, if one man could see a world in a grain of sand, why not in a pine cone?”

  Pen smiled. “Exactly. Donovan’s with the rug rats, by the way. Is that glass in your hair?”

  Riga looked down the gentle slope to the lake, glittering sapphire in the declining sun. Donovan would be worried. She should go to him. But guilt weighed her. She felt dirty, unclean. The thought of holding her babies in this state, tainting them with the traces of fear and dark magic clinging to her skin, curled her shoulders inward.

  “I need to get that out of my hair.” She smiled at Pen unconvincingly. “The first thing the nearest twin will do is try to jam it in his or her mouth. Could you bring a towel and clothes for me down to the pier? I’ll meet you there.”

  Pen bit her lip but nodded. She strode toward the gabled house of wood and stone.

  Circling the lot, Riga abandoned her ward check. Pen had been right. If one malfunctioned, the others would weaken, and she’d sense the glitch. She walked past the final ward, on the sand beach, and walked onto the dock. Stripping down to her bra and panties, she strode to the end and dove into the lake, scattering a school of dark, gray minnows.

  The shock of cold struck her like knives, and she forced herself not to explode out of the crystalline water. She kicked toward the sandy bottom, touching a moss-covered stone. A crawdad, fat and reddish gray, scuttled from beneath it, snapping its claws.

  The lake was at least ten feet deep here, and Riga twisted, looking up at the surface. A masculine figure in black wavered on the dock.

  She swam up, bursting from the icy water, gasping.

  Unspeaking, Donovan walked to the ladder, helping Riga as she climbed the last rungs. Her husband wrapped a thick towel around her and pulled her into his muscular arms. His warmth both comforted her and jolted her with electricity.

  She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, dark as a raven’s wing, but settled for brushing them lightly across the skin of his chest, bare beneath the open collar of his black, button-up shirt.

  His green eyes sparked with concern. “It’s not your fault.” His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through her.

  “I haven’t told you what happened yet.” Her teeth chattered. She laid her head against his broad chest, enjoying this moment of safety and calm, knowing he didn’t care if she was dampening his shirt.

  “But I know you. What happened?”

  She told him everything. Mrs. Norton. Riga’s mad need to flee the house. The senior care facility, strangely empty of ghosts. And the man, the chase, the liquor store.

  “You said he wasn’t human?”

  “He was, and he wasn’t. I thought he might have been possessed, but…” She shook her head. Possession wasn’t quite right. She’d seen possession before. This wasn’t it.

  He swept back her hair, tilting her chin up, and peace flowed through her, strong and humbling. “We’ll figure it out,” he said.

  She shook her head. The safety she felt in his arms was temporary. The real world and all its dangers still existed. “I’m worried about the twins—”

  “Ash told me about Jack’s bolt for freedom. This is the third time—”

  “I meant that thing in the parking lot. He recognized me somehow, not who I was but what I was. I may have brought something deadly to our door.”

  “I don’t see anyone at our door. And we have your wards to keep dark magic out and our guards to keep non-magical people out.” He frowned. “Though we still can’t understand how your Mrs. Norton wandered past everyone.”

  “But—”

  “The children are safe,” he said. “Nothing will hurt them while we have anything to say about it.”

  “Considering what I’ve done, you’re taking this well.”

  He raised a brow. “What you’ve done? Returned a confused woman to her home?”

  “I suspected there was magic involved.”

  “Where you are, there’s always magic,” he said. “Our relationship has never been safe. But right now, I’m more concerned about Pen.”

  “She won’t do anything reckless. Not after what happened in New Orleans last year. She’s changed.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “Me too. The experience shook her.” And that had been Riga’s fault as well. Pen hadn’t understood the danger, and an enemy of Riga’s had put her
niece through hell. Afterward, Pen had cocooned herself at her parents’ home. But then to Riga’s surprise, she’d given up her work in L.A. and come to Tahoe to study magic.

  “What did Sheriff King say?” Donovan asked.

  “They’re sending a sketch artist here tomorrow along with a detective. He said they’d run extra patrols by the house until they caught the killer.”

  “And you?” He steered her up the dock, toward the house. The sun reflected, blinding, in its tall, picture windows.

  “I need to find this guy before he finds us.” She scooped up her discarded clothing with one hand and clutched the towel about her. The gauze on her palms glided across the rough fabric.

  “Will Pen mind playing babysitter?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t asked.” Riga’s insides writhed. She should never have left the children. But even now she was torn between hovering over them like an anxious mother eagle and swooping from the house in search of her prey.

  “I’ll ask Ellen to find someone reputable,” Donovan said.

  “Your assistant, Ellen? You mean find a nanny?”

  “We’ve agreed we don’t want anyone to live with us,” he said. “I was thinking of part-time help. It makes sense to find someone reliable. Staying home all day is obviously making you crazy.”

  Chagrined, she stopped and turned to him. “Crazy?”

  “That was poorly worded.”

  Obviously crazy? “And a better phrasing would be…?”

  “You’re wonderful with the children, but you need time to pursue your own interests.”

  Riga sighed. Donovan owned casinos. She worked freelance. So it had made sense for her to be the stay-at-home parent. But frustration had been creeping in, along with a dash of resentment. And it had all boiled over today. Result: one man dead. And she’d made herself known to a creature that liked to kill.

  Madness.

  Climbing the steps onto the deck, they entered the living room through its glass doors.

  Pen slumped on a leather couch, a massive leather-bound tome in her lap. Her bare feet jiggled the twins in their reclining baby seats on the oriental carpet. Mobiles clamped to the top of the plush seats, fluffy lambs rocking in the air.

  Pen closed the book. “Hey.”

  The twins’ heads swiveled toward Riga. Their faces screwed up into matching visions of outrage, and squalls tore from their throats.

  Riga grimaced, shoulders hunching.

  Donovan laughed. “It’s probably your wet hair. They’re not used to seeing it plastered to your head. I’ll take care of the kids. Go ahead and get changed.”

  She fled up the stairs, trailed by the sound of her children’s wailing. Riga took a speed shower, doing a final check for glass. Changing into wide-legged khakis and a white blouse, she blew dry her hair. She ran down the stairs barefoot.

  In the living room, the twins had worked themselves into a hysterical scream-fest. Donovan, his face lined with tension, bounced Jack in his arms. Pen waltzed around the living room, past low, square tables and inset bookcases, holding Emma.

  “I’ll take her,” Riga told Pen.

  Emma leaned toward her mother, reaching, and Riga detached her daughter from Pen. The crying continued.

  Pen hurried from the room, hands to her ears, and disappeared up the stairs. There was a shriek, a thud, a bang.

  On stony wings, Brigitte sailed into the living room and landed on an oriental rug. She skidded, the fabric bunching beneath her talons. The gargoyle hopped onto the fireplace’s stone hearth. “Faugh,” she said, her voice a Parisian smoker’s gravel. “How is one to concentrate in all this racket?”

  The twins fell silent, staring at the stone creature. Emma burbled a laugh and strained toward the gargoyle.

  “Ba!” Jack pointed at Brigitte, his fingers splayed.

  Brigitte turned her back on the babies. “How is it possible for things so small to make ze sounds and smells so large?”

  Emma leaned in Riga’s arms and reached for the gargoyle.

  “They like you,” Riga said, hoping to mollify Brigitte. “They only stopped crying when you came in.”

  Brigitte sniffed. “They like pulling ze feathers from my tail.”

  “Is that why I found a stone feather in the nursery?” Donovan asked. “I thought you were molting.”

  Brigitte scowled. “I do not do anything as déclassé as molt!”

  “How’s Pen’s training going?” Riga asked.

  “She is a most promising magician,” the gargoyle said. “Or she would be if we were not constantly interrupted by babysitting duties.” She sniffed. “I smell dark magic. You have brought it to this house.”

  Donovan wrinkled his nose. “Someone needs changing.” Holding Jack at arm’s length, he strode from the room, muttering beneath his breath.

  “What do you know about possession?” Riga asked.

  Brigitte shrugged, her stone feathers rippling. “Overrated. You have encountered a possessed person today?”

  “I’m not sure.” She patted Emma’s back.

  Her daughter hiccupped.

  “In my experience,” Riga continued, “there are two types of possession. The most common exhibits as an influence. The person is unaware they’re being influenced. But it’s still demonic influence, not control. And then there’s the mad possession, where the victim is wild, out of control, harming himself and others. I’ve never encountered someone who was just a human… sock puppet for a calm, cool, and collected demonic entity.”

  “Yes, yes, the average demon is a primitive creature.” Brigitte yawned. “Get to ze point. I have not been sleeping well with all ze crying.”

  “Your crying or the twins’?”

  “How droll. You encountered a, how do you say, sock puppet?”

  “Outwardly, he seemed human, but he moved abnormally fast — he’s got powers that go way beyond simple behavioral influence. And there was more, behind his eyes.”

  “You looked in his eyes? And did he recognize you for what you are? If he did—”

  “He knows I’m a threat.”

  Emma grabbed a fistful of her hair and tried to stuff her hand into her mouth.

  Gently, Riga pried her hair free. “He came after me. I made the mistake of going into a store.” She lowered her gaze. “He killed the clerk.”

  “Foolish,” Brigitte said. “Assuming whatever it was would behave like an ordinary human was a mistake. You, however, are all too human. Do not let your much-deserved guilt get in the way of what must be done. Find this monster. Kill him before he harms anyone else, like Pen.”

  “Kill him. That’s your answer to everything.” Riga bowed her head, pressed her lips to Emma’s cheek. The confirmation of her guilt acted as an odd sort of release. She’d made a terrible mistake, one she could never make up for. All she could do was go forward, stop this thing from hurting anyone else.

  “Not to everything. But it is certainly ze simplest answer.”

  “No, it isn’t. I can’t just go around killing…” She shook her head. “How is Pen doing?”

  “She will be a great magician. Greater than you, I think. With my assistance, of course.”

  “Greater than me? You’re just annoyed I was the one who dreamed up the ward generator.”

  “That generator is all shortcuts and laziness. Is this ze training you propose for your niece? Has motherhood changed you so?”

  “Yes.”

  “It is no way to do magic. I will not teach your cheap, modern methods to Pen.”

  “Good. It would be a mistake to force my magic on her.”

  “Yes, she is different. Her spirit is brighter.”

  “She’s younger.” Pen hadn’t years of mistakes piled behind her.

  “True, she does not carry ze guilt. Or ze anger. I hope you have not put her in danger.”

  “I’d better talk to her.” Riga plodded up the stairs, passing the open door to the nursery. Donovan worked at the changing table, his expressi
on grim, and she smiled. Soiled diapers had an almost magical way of putting things in perspective.

  Emma thumped her forehead against Riga’s chest.

  She massaged her daughter’s back, warm beneath her romper. Lightly, she rapped on Pen’s closed door.

  Pen opened it, rubbing her eyes. They were streaked red, and Riga felt another pang of guilt.

  “Were you napping?” Riga asked. She envied her niece’s ability to fall asleep as soon as she closed her eyes. For Riga, sleep was a wrestling match.

  Pen laughed and pulled the door wide. “Hardly. I was just reading.”

  “May I come in?”

  Pen stepped backward into the room and motioned with her hand. “Su casa es su casa.”

  Riga sat on the bed, sinking into the down comforter and its burnt orange duvet. The walls of the guest room were painted soft, adobe brown. A crooked, decorative ladder climbed one wall. Sheer curtains billowed at the open double doors, exiting to a balcony overlooking the pines.

  Pen lowered herself into an oak rocking chair. On the end table beside it lay the bookmarked tome she’d been reading. “You think I should leave,” Pen said.

  “Let me tell you what happened today.” Riga ran through the story. When she finished, she said, “I don’t think this guy — whatever he is — is going to forget about me. He’ll be looking, and he’s made it clear he has no problems hurting innocents.”

  “I’d rather stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is my life now, and I can’t run from it. Besides, if he’s a what and not a who, there’s no way he’s getting past those wards.”

  Something in Pen’s tone stopped Riga. Her niece’s gray eyes were calm, steady. This wasn’t Pen being stubborn or foolish. It was something else, and Riga’s irritation drained away.

  “And you’re willing to stay on the grounds,” Riga said, “inside the wards, until I catch him? It could take weeks.” But she didn’t have weeks. The solstice would be here in days.

  “I’ll keep my head down.”

  The black phone rang on Pen’s desk. Frowning, Pen rose, answered it. “It’s for you. Sheriff King.” She handed Riga the phone and returned to her book — one of Agrippa’s tomes on Renaissance magic.