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

by Kirsten Weiss

  Horseflies circled above a trio of black, metal drums, centered on the concrete floor.

  She shut the door behind her. Remnants of death magic twined through her hair, sweeping her skin. Sulfur. Rot. Riga pressed the back of her hand beneath her nostrils. She dropped her hand and sniffed. A faint scent of incense — myrrh, belladonna, and other herbs — hung in the cool, damp air.

  She walked to the barrels. Frowning, she grasped one by the top, pulled. It tilted easily. Empty.

  She returned it to its place. The metal left a sheen of dark oil on her hand, and she rubbed her palms together, trying to rid herself of the mess and making it worse.

  Forcing herself not to wipe her hands on her khaki slacks, she paced the room, searching for evidence.

  A fly buzzed past her ear.

  She whacked the insect away. But she found not a single drop of candle wax, not one chalk marking, nothing hinting at magic aside from that cloying incense. Was the scent getting stronger? It had to be her imagination.

  Speculative, she eyed the barrels. A better place to store them would have been against a wall. Tipping one on its edge, she rolled it away from the other two and sucked in her breath. Faint, white chalk markings crawled on the floor where it had sat.

  Her pulse quickened. She rolled the other two barrels away. On the concrete floor was a barely-there outline of a chalk circle and a dark stain Riga didn’t want to explore. Someone had worked to obliterate the chalk marks. But the concrete floor was porous, and traces remained.

  Riga squinted, holding her breath. Yes, there were other markings, lines zigzagging inside the circle. Had Tanhauser drawn a sigil here to invoke his demon?

  She knelt, angling her head. The lines were smeared, nearly invisible, and her eyesight hadn’t improved with age.

  Tightening her jaw, she reached forward, touched the dark stain.

  Desire jolted her, and she rocked backward, landing hard on her butt, panting.

  Blood, and oh, God, how she wanted it. She closed her eyes, pushing away the need, breathing deeply. She was not her ancestors, she was not a necromancer, a blood magician. She was more than her heritage, and blood could call to her all it wanted, but she would be free.

  Legs shaky, she rose and dug in her satchel. Riga pulled out her cell phone and took pictures.

  Swatting at a fly, she left the boiler room, closing the door behind her. She returned to the storage room across from the elevator. “I know you’re still here,” she muttered. “What I don’t understand is why you’re hiding.”

  She shut and locked the door. Dropping her satchel on an ancient gurney, she took out a piece of chalk and box of salt. She sketched a sigil on the concrete floor and drew a lopsided circle around it, winding spells and protections into its lines.

  Riga poured the salt on the floor, making a second circle of protection. She sat, cross-legged, inside the salt ring. Satisfied, she channeled the energies from the above and below, imagined them filling her aura with gold light, driving away the darkness.

  Concentrating on her breathing, she let thoughts rise to her mind and fall away. The children and Donovan were the hardest to release. Her back ached, the cold from the floor seeping up her spine.

  Eyes at half-mast, Riga called to the ghost of Mr. Norton, envisioning him inside the sigil she’d drawn on the floor.

  In the chalk circle, a gray mist flickered, a miniature thundercloud. It congealed, darkening, forming legs, a torso, arms, growing into the shape of a slim, young man. The suit he wore was old-fashioned, brown, with wide lapels.

  He turned, his blue eyes wide with shock.

  She rose. “Hello, Mr. Norton. I’m Riga Hayworth, but I believe we’ve already met.”

  “You?” He spun, searching for an escape. “How did you…?”

  “Summon you?”

  “Know I was here.” Frowning, he pressed his hands against the invisible wall that bound him inside the circle.

  “Everyone told me your wife hadn’t been lucid for years. But she found her way to my home, miles away. We held a long, detailed conversation. She even recognized when her mind began to slip. I didn’t detect dark magic on her, but there was no evil intent in what you did, was there? You were trying to save her.”

  He raised his chin. “I love her.”

  “So you hijacked your wife’s body to get me here, to protect her. I’m trying, but I need your help. Your wife needs your help. What’s going on at the Sunset Towers?”

  He rocked in place. “I told you. There’s danger here. Danger for her. Danger for me.”

  “What kind of danger?”

  His hands fluttered. “I don’t… I can’t remember.”

  She’d met many confused ghosts. But this one had contacted the astral police, possessed his mad wife, and asked for Riga’s help. He should have some awareness of what was going on.

  Unless she had it the wrong way around. Had the mystical police contacted Mr. Norton, providing him with the power and the clarity to get the job done? Who had used whom? “What can you remember?” she asked.

  His arms fell to his sides. He exhaled, a whispery sigh that raised the hairs on Riga’s neck. “Something’s taking the other spirits,” he said. “At first I’d thought the other ghosts had just moved on from the Towers, but then I saw one… taken.”

  “Taken by what?”

  He shuddered. “It was dark, like a storm, not natural. It was as if the spirit was… eaten.”

  The demon could do it. She’d seen demons feed on wandering spirits before. “Are you the only one left?”

  He clenched his fists. “I tried to convince the others to move on, to run, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “And the story about the basement?”

  “Basement?”

  “When you possessed your wife, you told me you heard people speaking through the vents, their voices coming from the basement. That you heard them when you were upstairs. Was that true?”

  “Upstairs.” He rubbed his brow. “No.”

  Riga pressed her lips together. Patience.

  “I was down here,” he said. “I was hiding in the basement, not upstairs, and I heard them. I don’t think they’re stopping at taking spirits of the dead.”

  There was a metallic clank, and he jerked. “You have to release me,” he said, panic lacing his voice. “I have to hide.”

  “Mr. Norton, you need to move on.”

  “I can’t leave her alone. It’s coming. I can feel it. I have to hide!” His fists beat, frantic, against his invisible prison. He moaned. “Please, you don’t understand what it will do.”

  His fear drove her to her feet. She hurried to his circle, scuffing a break in the chalk with her foot, muttering a release.

  Mr. Norton’s ghost vanished.

  She was alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Riga’s stomach rumbled. Staring at the shingled A-frame across the street, she reached for the baby bag next to her in the SUV.

  Pen shifted in the back seat. “I thought we were driving around to stop the kids from crying.”

  “We are.” Riga fumbled in the bag, pulled out a jar of pureed apricots, a baby spoon. When Riga had returned from the Towers, the twins’ wailing had echoed through the house. A frustrated Pen had looked on the verge of tears.

  “But we’re not driving,” her niece said. “We’re sitting.”

  “They’re calmed by the sound of the motor.” Riga glanced in the back seat. In their baby chairs, the twins gazed placidly back at her, Pen sandwiched between them.

  “Good thing this car isn’t electric,” Pen muttered.

  Ash growled. “Bull. We’re on a stakeout. You actually brought your kids on a stakeout.”

  Riga unscrewed the jar’s cap. It made a soft, popping sound. “No, a stakeout involves people watching. The house belongs to Kayley Jalonik, who’s currently at her job as a dementia nurse at the Sunset Towers. That makes this more of a recce.”

  “Recce?” Pen asked

&nb
sp; “That’s a showy way of saying recon,” Ash said.

  “Pen, what do you sense in that house?” She took a bite of the apricot puree. She’d rather have a burger, but the baby food wasn’t bad.

  Pen blew out her breath. “Again?” This was their third stop of the day. But her gaze softened.

  Ash’s mouth twisted. “You’re eating baby food? What has happened to you?”

  “I’m starving!”

  Pen bolted forward. “I feel something.”

  “What?” Riga and Ash asked in unison.

  “Spirits, I think.”

  “Spirits,” Riga said. “Not death?”

  She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you what death feels like, but there’s intelligence around that house. It’s confused, faint. It just feels like ghosts.”

  “And that’s where we’re different. I can’t tell you what ghosts feel like, but I sense the death about them,” Riga said. “And the death here is strong.” She put the jar on the dash and opened the SUV’s door. “Ash, take the wheel. Come on, Pen.”

  “What?” Ash’s gaze darted to the dashboard clock, the doors, the wheel. “You can’t leave me alone with them.”

  “Just drive around the block until we’re done,” Riga said, stepping to the pavement. “That’ll keep them calm.”

  Pen tumbled out of the SUV.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Not a babysitter.”

  She checked her watch. “We’ll be back before it’s time for their two o’clock formula. Ash, I know I’m asking for a big favor here. But I’ve got to check this out, and Pen needs to come with me, and the twins’ safety is more important than mine. I need you with them. Please.”

  “Fine,” he said, sliding across the seat. “But if anything goes down at that house, I’m leaving you there.”

  “Thanks. I owe you.” Riga shut the door and strode across the narrow road. It cut across the slope of a hill, pines cascading down its sides.

  Behind them, the SUV revved, drove off.

  “I didn’t sense anything at the other two homes — did they belong to your suspects as well?” Pen asked.

  “Yes. My hypothesis is that Tanhauser’s accomplice is non-magical. But he or she got sucked into Tanhauser’s orbit for a reason. Maybe they like bald, bad guys, or maybe they’re attracted to the occult. If the latter, we might be able to sense dark objects in their homes.” And Jalonik’s house was the first with any whiff of the supernatural.

  Riga paused at the edge of the gravel drive and extended her aura. Its left side pinged, a bell she felt rather than heard. “Around back, I think.”

  They walked down the gentle slope, Pen casting anxious glances between the pines at the house next door.

  “There’s no one inside.” Riga stopped. “Can’t you feel it?”

  Pen’s foot skidded on dried needles, and she righted herself. “Just a sec.” She closed her eyes, slowed her breathing. “It feels… hollow.”

  “The way an empty house would feel. Nice job.” She walked on, the ground leveling out. A mass of yellow-flowered mule ears and alpine paintbrush bordered a path lined with uneven stones. Glimpses of the lake gleamed sapphire between the pines. In the distance, the faint sounds from the highway rose to them.

  Riga walked to a stand of five trees. “Here.”

  Pen followed.

  Riga extended her hands, and Pen grasped them.

  “Now what?” her niece asked.

  “Now reach out and sense what you can.” Riga relaxed her vision. A globe of light drifted past. Another. Soon dozens hovered between the trees and the house.

  “What are they?” Pen breathed. “They don’t feel… bad.”

  Riga released Pen’s hands and walked toward one of the lights. She knelt, the palm of her hand flat above the earth. “Feel this.”

  Pen squatted beside her, extended her hand, palm down. She stood quickly. “Someone’s buried here.”

  “Many someones. A burial ground.”

  “My God. Murder victims?”

  Riga shook her head. “I’m not feeling distress or anger or injustice. Are you?”

  Pen knit her lip. “No. If they were murder victims, it wouldn’t feel so peaceful, would it?”

  A fog shifted at the edge of Riga’s vision. On the hillside, a dark-skinned boy in a fringed breechcloth and leggings stood beside a brown bear. Riga stilled, blinked.

  They were gone.

  Pen exhaled slowly. “This is an old place, an old burial ground. Native Americans?”

  “Yes,” Riga said, “I think we’ve found a Washoe gravesite.”

  “Washoe — the tribe who first lived in this area?”

  Riga inclined her head.

  “But how is that possible?” Pen asked. “They wouldn’t have allowed anyone to build here if there was a burial ground, would they?”

  Riga motioned toward Kayley’s A-frame. “This is an older cabin. When they built it, they might not have been looking for remains or cared if they found any.”

  “We need to tell someone.”

  “Do we?”

  “Don’t we?”

  “If we tell the authorities, the archaeologists will be all over this site, wanting to dig. The spirits seem at peace here. I’d rather leave them.”

  Pen scrunched her lips, nodded.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Riga said, “I’ll get in touch with a shaman I know. She’ll be able to track down a local Washoe shaman, let him know what we’ve found. Let the Washoe decide how they want to handle the graves. Let’s go.”

  They circled the house, Riga stopping to peer through the windows. She saw and sensed nothing hinting of the occult. Returning to the street, she called Ash.

  “You in trouble?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’ll be right there.” He hung up.

  “He really, really likes me,” Riga said beneath her breath.

  They crossed the street and waited.

  “Thanks for bringing me along,” Pen said. “It’s been a while since I’ve been a part of one of your investigations.”

  “You’re ready.”

  “So what does this mean for your case?” Pen asked. “What sort of person lives on top of an Indian burial ground? Would it affect Kayley?”

  “It depends. I’m not getting any sense of hostile intent from the gravesite. If Kayley’s not a terribly sensitive person, the cemetery might not affect her at all.” But what were the odds?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “You have the most interesting friends.” Donovan rolled the shaded stroller back and forth on the sidewalk.

  The Vegas heat was blistering. They sheltered in the long, sundial shadow of a skyscraper. The solstice was tomorrow, and they were no closer to understanding what was coming.

  “I don’t have friends.” Riga studied the papers in her hands — documents from Morgan Verdun’s Vegas divorce.

  “How did you meet the court clerk?”

  “She was a fan of my show, Supernatural Encounters.”

  “Amazing, the effects of reality TV,” he said. “Anything interesting in that file?”

  “Apparently you need to be a Nevada resident for six weeks to get a divorce in the state. While Verdun was establishing residence for her divorce last year, she lived in this neighborhood.” She squinted down the street, a mix of offices, restaurants, and upscale groceries. It would be a good district to live in, but Verdun hadn’t stayed long, landing a job with the Towers three months after she’d arrived. “How long has Stile been in this building?”

  “Since it was built, about a decade ago, I think,” he said.

  “Strange that Verdun and Stile shared the same neighborhood.”

  “You said you didn’t sense anything odd at her townhouse yesterday.”

  “No,” Riga said. “No, we didn’t.”

  “Do you want to check out her old apartment?”

  She squinted at the glass and steel skyscraper, where Senator Stile maintaine
d an office.

  “What’s wrong?” Donovan asked.

  “Time and space. We’re running out of both and don’t have time to play tourist at her old apartment. The solstice is tomorrow. I’ll call her landlord after we finish with Senator Stile.”

  “We’ll stop him, Riga.”

  “I know.” She slipped her arm through his. “And thank you.” Although he’d initially resisted bringing her, once Donovan had made the appointment, he’d taken it for granted she would come. And there was no way they were leaving the twins behind after the assault on their home.

  “After you.” Donovan grasped the double-wide stroller. He followed her through the chic glass and slate lobby and maneuvered the baby carriage into the elevator.

  A blast of cool air lifted the hair around Riga’s neck. She shivered in the air conditioning. The twins wore light tees and cotton pants, and Riga tucked blankets around them.

  She adjusted the lapels on her white blouse. The camel-colored blazer with scrollwork lapels had come off as soon as she’d gotten out of the SUV. But in spite of the Vegas-summer sheen on her forehead, she knew she looked good.

  Donovan hadn’t needed to smarten up, ever elegant in one of his black Armani suits. He pulled her to him and bent his head, his lips brushing her ear. “My hotel’s not far from here. We’ve got a daycare service.”

  She laughed, warming. “Tempting. How does one turn down a man with an entire hotel?”

  Releasing her, Donovan checked his watch. “Senator Stile had better not be late.”

  The elevator shuddered to a halt. Its doors slid open on a white-painted hallway with thin, gray carpeting. Paintings of Nevada deserts and mountains hung on the walls.

  “It doesn’t exactly match the lobby’s modern style.” Riga stepped out, reversing the carriage into the hallway.

  Emma dropped her teething ring and leaned over the side.

  Donovan picked it up, made a face. He dropped the ring in the bag hanging from the back of the carriage and found a clean replacement. “He won’t let them update this floor.”

  Their daughter squawked, and he handed her the ring. “He’s going for a man-of-the-people image,” Donovan said. He pointed down the corridor. “That way.”