The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Intensification,” Riga said. “It’s a loop, see? An infinite loop, with the chaos getting worse and worse.” Her fists clenched. “Murdoch bragged to me about what he'd done. He really thought I was that dense.” Or too past it to figure it out. And she had been – for a time.

  Had Riga signed Deepika’s death warrant by discussing the case? But she’d been careful about revealing too much. Not careful enough? And there were other symbols on that dark spell she hadn’t been able to copy. The flowchart didn’t end with Riga’s portion of it.

  Or had Deepika caused her own death when she’d signed that contract, continuing the project? Riga might never know. Sickened, she rubbed the bridge of her nose.

  “This is how he programmed his servitor,” she said. “As an independent system.”

  “Ah,” Brigitte said. “If it was independent, it explains why you could not see a connection between spell and magician.”

  “Exactly.” She turned to Donovan. “I think I’ve got this right, but it’s only part of the spell – the bit I could see and record,” she said rapidly. “I need to talk to your tech team.”

  “Sure.”

  “About magic?” Brigitte sniffed. “I am your familiar.”

  “About computer viruses.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Riga groaned and pressed the base of her palms against her eyes. Outside the kitchen’s glass door, the lake heaved. A sailboat lay on its side, washed up on their beach.

  Donovan paced beside the boat, a phone to his ear, the wind tossing his raven hair. In a corner near the kitchen’s ceiling, a TV, muted, ran a news feed, its ticker reporting on the storm’s destruction. A water spout had appeared, and Riga had been too busy spell crafting to notice.

  Donovan's “tech guy” was a diminutive Asian-American woman named Sarah Cheong. At the marble kitchen counter, Sarah grimaced and sipped from her coffee mug. “Don't feel bad. What you're trying to do, looping through a string and checking if your if/then conditions are met, is tough. May I?”

  “Please.” Riga shoved the paper across the counter and inhaled the richly calming, coffee smell.

  Sarah checked Riga's work and speedily rewrote it in a neat, architectural hand. “There. Try that.” An expression of uncertainty crossed her face. “Or, er, I mean–”

  “I know, it's not real computer code.” She studied the new flowchart and smiled. “But I think this will work for my purposes. Thanks.”

  “I'd love to see your art project when it's done.”

  “It's sort of… ephemeral.” Donovan’s employees were discreet. But telling Sarah the truth would only cause another loop of the spell. And Sarah’s death. Riga scraped back her chair and stood.

  “Oh, like a pop-up installation?”

  “Something like that. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Hey, the boss calls, I come. Besides, I've been dying to get a look inside your home.”

  “Oh?” Riga's cheeks warmed. How quickly she'd come to take this luxury for granted. “Well, I owe you one. Thanks again.”

  She saw Sarah to the door and watched her get in her Mazda and drive off.

  Brigitte craned over the foyer banister. “I do not understand how you will, how do you say? Infect this servitor.”

  “Computer viruses piggyback on existing programs. My spell will attack the independent spell running the servitor.”

  “And so?”

  “And so, I'll have to create a new, viral servitor to infect the existing one.”

  “You cannot.” Brigitte hissed. “It is too dangerous. You do not know what you might unleash.”

  “If I got this coding right, my virus and the servitor will end as soon as it completes its mission.”

  “If! And if it does not want to complete its mission?”

  Riga climbed the white-carpeted stairs. “You've seen too many sci-fi movies. It can only follow its programming.”

  “And you are not a chaos magician! You do not know what you are working with.”

  At the top of the stairs, Riga paused, smiled. “Oh, Brigitte. I was a chaotic magician before I even knew the term.” She strode down the hallway.

  “And apparently you still do not know it. Chaos magician. Not chaotic–”

  A door slammed at the end of the hall.

  Brigitte sniffed. “This can only end in tears.”

  *****

  Riga and Donovan sat in his SUV outside Murdoch's A-frame cabin. She clutched a small wooden box in her lap.

  The storm hadn't abated, but it also hadn’t touched this side of the hill. No rain darkened the earth. No broken branches lay scattered on the ground. But the air was cold. A beam of sunlight pierced the gray clouds and illuminated Murdoch's shingled cabin.

  “Don't take this the wrong way,” Donovan said, “but your approach seems a little theatrical.”

  “That’s a feature of my plan, not a bug.” Stage magicians had something right – magic was theater. Theater inspired wonder and subconscious belief, even while the consciousness was shouting, it's a trick! Murdoch needed to believe she had something up her sleeve. And she did. Riga ran her thumb along the edge of the wooden box.

  Donovan cocked a brow.

  “All right,” she admitted. “I've seen Murdoch's servitor, but I haven't connected with the damned thing. I don't have a piece of its code or a strand of its hair – since it doesn’t have any – to connect my servitor to his. To load my virus, the connection will have to be visual.”

  “Ah.” One corner of his mouth lifted. “Hence my role. That's why you want me to flush it out.”

  “Exactly. And sorry. I should have explained that bit sooner.” She had explained the risks. In detail. But if Donovan got hurt… Her knuckles whitened on the box.

  He shrugged. “We're both figuring this out.”

  Riga wasn't sure if he meant the magic or the marriage, but she nodded, relieved. “Donovan… I’m sorry I didn’t bring you in before, on my first visit to Malcolm’s and then to Deepika’s house. You’re my client, and—”

  Swiftly, he reached for her and pulled her into a kiss. “I’m not your client,” he said roughly. “Don’t ever forget that. And don’t apologize unless you mean it.”

  “I do mean it.”

  One corner of his mouth pulled upward. “Oh, Riga. No, you don’t.” He kissed her again, more gently this time, long and lingering, and when he stopped, the blood pounded in her ears. “Give it time,” was all he said.

  They stepped from the SUV.

  Confused, she followed him past the tangle of manzanita. Donovan wasn’t angry, but he didn’t trust her sincerity either. And he was right not to. She blew out her breath. She’d give it time.

  They climbed the steps to Murdoch's front door. She shifted her new satchel, so that the bag pressed against her right hip, padded by her navy pea coat.

  Donovan knocked.

  Metallic thuds from the far-off construction site echoed, and Riga shivered, remembering.

  A minute or so later, Murdoch opened the door. “Yeah?”

  “Donovan Mosse.” A plain business card appeared in his hand as if by magic. “And I believe you know my wife.”

  “Um, this is a surprise, but okay.” He stroked his reddish beard, and his gaze flicked to Riga’s wrecked hair. “Come in.” Murdoch stepped away from the door, and they walked inside. “What's in the box?”

  “Magic,” she said. “I think you'll appreciate it.”

  “Magic?” He laughed. “Good one. What is it really?” He dropped onto the beige couch. An empty vodka bottle lay tipped on the tiki bar.

  “No more games.” Donovan's voice whip-cracked. “We know everything. Stop, now, and I won't make the rest of your pathetic life a living hell.”

  “Whoa. That's–” Murdoch cut his gaze toward Riga. “Is he serious?”

  She sat in the chair across from Murdoch and set the box on her knees. “Serious as a heart attack. We all know the
police can't touch you, but he can.”

  “No manager will hire you,” Donovan said. “Not after I’m done.”

  His face mottled. “You can't do that.”

  “Try me,” Donovan said.

  He leapt to his feet and jabbed a finger toward Donovan. “I haven't done anything!”

  “You shouldn’t have killed them,” Donovan growled.

  At the periphery of Riga's vision, the air shimmered with green light.

  “You haven't done anything you can be prosecuted for,” she corrected. “Not by the police. But we're not the police. You have three seconds to end the spell.”

  The green light on her right darkened, coalescing into a human figure.

  “Or what?” Murdoch’s neck corded.

  “I won't say it twice,” Donovan said.

  “Three.” Riga's breath quickened.

  “Threatening me is illegal,” Murdoch said.

  The green-black servitor shifted, flowing toward Donovan. Black cords lashed from its hands. But it wouldn't hurt Donovan. Not inside Murdoch's house. That would be messy, and might draw attention to the magician. And she’d given Donovan a protective charm. That had better work.

  “Two.” Tension tightened Riga's belly. The box in her hand seemed to pulse, as if it had a heartbeat. But would the magician believe something was happening? Or had his nihilism stripped him of his ability to believe in anything?

  “I'm calling the cops.” Murdoch rose.

  Green numbers flowed down the servitor's body. The cords wrapped around Donovan’s aura but no further.

  Riga shuddered, the power of the servitor’s magic fighting her own power, within the charm. What if Murdoch hadn't planned this far ahead, hadn't expected a throw down inside his cabin? Beads of sweat appeared above her upper lip.

  Energy flowed from the earth and sky, meeting in Riga's chest. “One!” The tension snapped, and the coldness of the in-between swamped her.

  Riga opened the box and visualized a ball of light springing from it.

  Murdoch pursed his lips. “And?”

  Donovan leaned toward her and frowned into the empty box. The cords tightened, and fine, black cracks lined the globe of Donovan’s aura.

  She made a quick gesture above the open box.

  “Do you think you're a magician?” Murdoch's lips curled.

  Her back was damp with sweat. How long would this take? Had she written the virus’s code correctly?

  Stall. “I'm a metaphysical detective.”

  “Yeah, like that's a real thing. You both need to go. And by the way, I'm reporting this harassment to the police.”

  Splotches of black, like drops of oil, glistened on Donovan’s aura. The ties attacking him should have loosened by now. Something should have happened. Her hands shook with the strain.

  Donovan lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “Your funeral. We gave you a chance.” He moved toward the door.

  Riga followed. She shoved the box inside her satchel and grabbed a box of salt.

  Murdoch leapt from the couch. In two strides he was at Riga's side, whispering. “Your life will be utter chaos. But don't worry, it won't last much longer.”

  So, he did believe, and he’d tipped his hand. “Really?” Riga cocked her head, studying the man. “You act untouchable. But if you believed we couldn’t do anything, you'd admit what you were. Even if we were recording this conversation, and I think you know we aren't, what could the cops do? Nothing.”

  His shoulders relaxed, and the big man laughed, a rich, genuine sound. “All right. You got me. I did it all. I magically caused the accidents at the lab, killed Gabe and Deepika. I thought using chaos magic to cause chaos would be... ironic.”

  “You killed Gabe because he talked,” Donovan said. “But why Deepika?”

  “She signed off on the next stage of the project. There are always consequences.”

  If, then… Riga’s lips pulled back, baring her teeth. “Who hired you?”

  He waggled a finger. “Uh, uh. I told you, I'm loyal to my employer.”

  “That’s okay,” she said. “I've got a pretty good idea already. And thanks. You've cleared my conscience.”

  More black ribbons of magic shot from the servitor’s hands. They flew past Riga, hugging her body, and she shivered at their sickening, seductive touch.

  The numbers racing down the thing’s body slowed, glitched. It didn’t break its pace, stalking toward them, one hand outstretched. And oh, how she wanted its touch. Her mouth watered. She leaned toward the servitor.

  It thrust its hand inside Murdoch's left ear and its black fingers came out the other side of his head.

  The magician's face contorted and went slack. Murdoch crumpled to the floor.

  The servitor collapsed in a pile of glowing numbers.

  A ball of light zipped from its fading jumble of remains. The globe hovered for a moment in front of Riga's chest, then the servitor she’d created, her virus, popped out of existence.

  Donovan hurried to kneel beside the fallen man and pressed two fingers to his throat. “He's alive.”

  Her shoulders relaxed. Thank God.

  She wasn't happy with this solution either, but hadn't been able to figure out a better alternative. In spite of Brigitte’s urgings, she wouldn’t kill the magician. Not intentionally.

  Donovan reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a phone, called for an ambulance. “I thought the servitor would wipe his memory?”

  She hesitated. “It will.” It should. “But losing a lifetime's worth of memories can’t be easy on his body.” The chaos magician had taken lives. Starting fresh was better than he deserved. But it wasn't up to her to decide what people deserved. That path only led to darkness. What she'd done was bad enough.

  They waited for the EMTs and told them Murdoch had suddenly collapsed, which was true enough.

  *****

  In the sleek waiting area, Riga flipped through a magazine, not reading its glossy pages.

  “I didn’t like leaving you behind at Murdoch’s.” Donovan voice was low and intense.

  She looked up, surprised.

  A phone buzzed on the receptionist’s desk, and the woman answered.

  “I was only two steps behind you at Murdoch’s house,” Riga whispered, glancing at the receptionist. “I wasn’t left behind.”

  His green eyes darkened. “I won’t do it again.”

  Instincts and programming. Donovan was by nature a protector. He’d argued when she’d told him that part of the plan. But she’d known Murdoch might never tell them the truth, and she’d wanted to hear him admit his magic. She wanted the certainty. By letting him speak to her relatively alone, letting him try to intimidate her, he’d felt more powerful. That sense of power had led him to confess. Murdoch hadn’t beaten his impulses.

  Donovan had – in that moment, at least. He’d gone along with everything for her.

  But it was so easy to let those impulses run riot.

  “Thank you for trusting me,” she said.

  “I’ll always trust you.”

  The receptionist stood. Heels clacking on the white tiles, she walked inside another office and shut the door.

  “What if he remembers?” Donovan asked.

  “He won't.” But Riga would return to Murdoch’s house and to that shed. She’d search every bit of his property until she found his occult texts and destroyed them. Or confiscated them. Brigitte had said she was interested in chaos magic, and forewarned was forearmed.

  The smiling receptionist emerged from behind the office door. “He'll see you now.”

  They stood, thanking her, and walked inside.

  Tod Crafton rose from behind his shiny black desk. “No accidents so far today, knock on wood.” He rapped on the desk. “Not that it matters. We're shutting down.”

  “I thought Deepika signed the new contract?” Riga asked.

  “She did, but I didn't. And now that she'
s gone, the decision is mine.” He lifted his hands, dropped them to his sides. “I can't go on with the company like this. Not without Gabe and Deepika.”

  “So you got what you wanted,” Riga said.

  His chin lowered. “I don't want this. Not like this.”

  “Please stop,” she said. “The lies are getting boring. We know who was behind the sabotage and how. It's over.”

  His eyes widened. “You caught the saboteur? But everyone said–”

  “Murdoch told us everything,” Donovan said. “He's done.”

  “Murdoch?” His brow furrowed. “How do I know that name?”

  Riga sat, crossed her legs, brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her wide-legged slacks. “Because you hired him to kill your partner.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Tod sank into his executive chair. Its wheels squeaked on the white-tile floor. “Sorry?”

  “Murdoch was... unique,” Riga said. “It's unlikely you'll find anyone like him again.”

  “I still don't–”

  “You were in the same fraternity,” she said, nodding to a framed certificate on one white wall. “Zeta Tau Psi. He wore a ring.”

  He raised his palms. “Lots of people were in that fraternity.”

  Riga’s hands hung loose at the sides of her pea coat, but anger vibrated through her limbs. “You invited him to the recruiting event. He didn't quite belong there - everyone agreed on that. Even Murdoch agreed on that. When the police check the company's HR files, they'll learn you were behind that invitation. The invite had to come from someone inside the company. And Deepika and Gabe are dead, along with three of your lab workers.”

  “So what if I helped out a frat brother? It's no crime.”

  “Then why did you pretend you didn't know anything about him?” she asked.

  “The police didn't ask me about him, and I didn't think I owed you an explanation.”

  “You didn't like working for the military,” Donovan said.

  “It's nothing against building weapons, per se. But the profits are short-term and based on politics. Consumer and industrial goods make better strategic sense.”