Riga said nothing.
“And yes, I don’t like working for the military,” he continued. “They're goose-stepping bullies. But again, I ask, so? What does any of that matter?”
“And you’ve got a dread disease,” Riga said quietly. “Parkinson’s. You have less to lose. Maybe you wanted to go out on your own terms?”
Donovan's jaw hardened. “Or you were scared and greedy. Harley Westbrook was ready to buy the company, but only if it wasn't tied up in military contracts. You wanted his money.”
Surprised, Riga glanced up at him. She hadn't told Donovan that detail about her meeting with Harley. But Donovan had his own sources.
“And so I brought a magician to a party to hex Gabe and Deepika to death?” Tod asked dryly.
“Murdoch didn't work for free,” Riga said. “We'll find records of payments between the two of you. There's always a trail, even if you paid cash. But you didn't pay cash, did you?”
His gaze flickered. “I might have paid the man for some personal work.”
“What work?” Riga’s nails bit into her palms. “Show me.”
“I don’t have to show you anything.”
Donovan growled low in his throat.
“Let's say it's all true,” Tod said. “Let's say I would do anything not to renew our military contract. Maybe I was crazy enough to hire a chaos magician to cause so many problems, Gabe would have to quit. And then, what if I added in some… let's call them riders. That if Gabe talked about his suspicions, he'd die. Or if a partner signed the contract he or she would die.”
“Even if you had signed the next phase of the contract, you wouldn’t have gotten caught up in the spell,” Riga said. “You weren’t a majority shareholder. But you are now, aren’t you?”
“Magic.” He sneered. “Who'd believe it? The police? A jury? And even if they did believe I'd hired Murdoch, they still couldn't touch me. They’d never believe Murdoch pulled it off. No one believes in magic anymore.”
“I never called Murdoch a chaos magician,” Riga said, tensing.
“You mentioned it to me before.”
“No,” she said. “I didn't.”
“Good luck proving that. You can't touch me. Neither can the law.”
Donovan's fists clenched. “Five people are dead. Gabe and Deepika never did anything to you.”
“They were ruining my life! I needed that money, but they didn’t care what I wanted. They wouldn’t buy me out, said they didn’t have the cash. For them, it was all about Acton Industries and the Acton name. Who says they didn’t deserve to die?”
Donovan took a step forward, and Riga laid a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. His muscles quivered with tension and abruptly relaxed.
“A friend recently told me arrogance made one stupid,” Riga said. “You were stupid to tell me about the mathematician you met who was interested in chaos theory. Did you think it would make you look innocent?”
“I don’t care how it makes me look. I’ve done nothing illegal.”
“Magic's a funny thing,” Riga said, her voice hard. “Did Murdoch explain how it worked?”
“You mean chaos?”
“I mean cause and effect. Chaos magic isn't all that chaotic. It's still rooted in the rules of magic, it just pulls from different traditions.”
Tod yawned. “Fascinating.”
A crow flew low, flashing past the office window.
“But all those traditions have common roots,” she said. “Magic still works through cause and effect. The universe has a way of naturally returning to balance, of working things out.”
“Karma?” Tod laughed shortly. “Give me a break. Injustice goes unpunished every day.”
“People see what they want to see,” Riga said, unconsciously quoting Brigitte.
“Get out.”
“This isn't over,” Donovan warned.
“I would love to see you, the great Donovan Mosse, try to prove I hired a magician. Whose reputation do you think would be ruined by that?”
Donovan smiled bitterly. “Mine, no doubt. But my promise stands. Let’s go, Riga.”
Riga and Donovan left.
In the parking lot, he pulled the phone from his pocket and turned off the recorder. “We got nothing.”
“No,” she said. Donovan had actually recorded himself threatening Crafton. What they had was worse than nothing. “He was careful not to implicate himself. And he was right. Even if he had admitted everything, the police couldn't touch him.”
“What about Harley Westbrook? Do you think he was in on it?”
She shook her head. “No. And if we tell him what Tod did, I don't think it will make a damn bit of difference. He'll still happily buy him out. Having the goods on Tod might even get him a better price.”
Donovan opened the door of the SUV for her and gazed up at the lab’s boxy offices. “I can't leave this, Riga. I owe it to Gabe and Deepika.”
“I know,” she said heavily. “We'll figure something out. Together.” But she had no idea what that might be.
“Together is all I wanted.” He clasped one of her hands, and the electricity of his touch raced through her body.
They were connected in a warm, unbreakable web. Whatever happened next, they’d get through it. Lightly, she ran a hand along his rough cheek. “It will work out.”
They climbed inside the SUV, and Donovan drove through the lot to the security gate. A guard checked their license plate, and the red-and-white arm slowly swung upward. Donovan edged through the gate.
A roar of sound. The SUV rocked on its wheels. Donovan slammed on the brakes, flinging them against their seatbelts.
They twisted in the car. Smoke billowed from the offices they'd just left.
Donovan turned to stare at Riga.
A terrible tension constricted her chest. “That… That wasn't me,” she said quickly, horrified.
Alarms clanged from the complex. Something crashed.
They made to get out of the car, but the guards waved them back in, forced them to drive on.
Donovan pulled to the side of the road a block from the lab. His mouth compressed. “Murdoch's out of the picture. You wrecked his servitor. Why hasn't the sabotage ended?”
“It has! It must have. And that's not the lab. It's the offices.” She swallowed.
That wasn't me.
But had it been?
*****
“Tod Crafton’s dead.” Donovan handed the newspaper to Riga across the kitchen counter.
She scanned the headline, FIRST CONFIRMED DEATH BY METEOR STRIKE, and set down the paper. “A meteor strike,” she said, disbelieving.
“That’s what they say.”
Outside the windows, morning sunlight glittered off the lake, still and blue as a sapphire.
“He was killed by a meteor,” Riga said flat and disbelieving.
“Yes.”
She read on.
A meteorite the size of a bowling ball crashed into the offices of Acton Industry at 3:33 yesterday afternoon, killing one: the company's new CEO, Tod Crafton. The meteor was a stray from the Perseid meteor shower, which peaked last night around one AM. However, astronomical authorities have asserted that such incidents are rare – so rare that this is the first confirmed death by meteor.
In 2016, an Indian bus driver was killed by what was initially believed to be a meteor. However, later review of the site indicated that it was more likely a land-based explosion, although no traces of explosives were found.
“The odds of getting killed by a meteor are astronomically low,” says Dr. Jonathan Parker, of Harvard University. The university has cataloged over 200 years of meteor strikes. And though other human-meteor fatalities have been recorded, these reports are considered unreliable.
Mr. Tod Crafton is survived by his daughter, Pamela, and his wife, Astrid.
“Riga, when you said the universe had a way of taking care of things–”
&nb
sp; “This wasn't what I meant,” she said hastily. Good God.
Brigitte landed on the marble counter, rattling the breakfast plates. “I confess, I begin to find this chaos magic fascinating. It seems to have startling after effects. Though I must emphasize seems.”
“I'll bite,” Riga said, uneasy. “What do you mean by seems?”
“Do you believe this would have happened, had you not interfered?” Brigitte asked.
“It– Murdoch's spell wouldn't have been broken. I'm assuming that's what caused the backlash.” She'd phoned the hospital every hour. The chaos magician was awake and confused and without any memory of who he was or what had happened.
Riga felt dirty, guilt thickening her throat. What was a life if you couldn't remember it? What she'd done wasn't so far from murder. But… it wasn’t murder.
“That is not what I referred to,” Brigitte said. “Your virus ended the servitor’s program, did it not? So how could such chaos have been unleashed now?”
“You're saying it's my fault,” Riga said, annoyed. “I didn't do this. I had nothing to do with the meteor.”
“Have I not heard you say that a curse can be a small thing? Wishing a fellow driver ill, thinking a negative thought, even the subconscious–”
“I didn't do this!” Riga’s chest squeezed. She couldn’t breathe.
“Of course you didn't.” Donovan laid a hand atop hers. “If anyone wished him ill, it was me. I threatened him.”
“But you do not have Riga's powers,” Brigitte said.
“Another independent servitor may have been set in motion when the first was destoryed.” Riga stood. “But it’s over now. Murdoch is out of the picture, and Tod Crafton is dead.” She grabbed her bagel off the plate, set the plate in the dishwasher, and strode upstairs.
It wasn't her.
Was it?
<<<<>>>>
Eudaimonia
“Brigitte, are you happy?” Pen asked, as we sat upon the sand beside the great lake. It was the question of youth, and so I forgave her foolishness and explained.
For, of course, I was happy. My creator and first master, the alchemist, taught me the secret to happiness – having purpose. His purpose was eudaimonia, having a spirit that was good, and so it must be mine as well.
My years passed as the good alchemist’s familiar. But he did not understand I could not achieve my purpose unless I was free. For how can one’s spirit be truly good, if one’s actions are forced to the good? Was I good, or was I simply following another’s inclinations?
Then my first master died in his sleep, his hands raised above his long beard as if casting a spell. There was much confusion, for the old alchemist had kept me secret, even from his beloved sons. No one knew to command me, or even knew of my existence.
My chest ached at the loss. Now, there was no one to say, “Brigitte, go!” Or, Brigitte, come!”
But, the alchemist’s death had set me free to find my own eudaimonia.
I explored the great city of men, where the gargoyles did not speak but the paving stones told many a tale.
Freedom heightened my senses. I reveled in flying through the coils of smoke rising from chimneys and braziers, in the clatter of carts in the streets, in the market sellers’ shouts. From the top of the great cathedral, I watched the humans beetling beneath me, so busy with their hither and fro.
But they did not see me. Even in that long-ago era, humans saw only what they expected. The ghosts, however, noticed me. Sadly, they were terrible conversationalists. Their words, they blew through me. The dead were as bad as the living, trapped in tight whorls of their thoughts. I could not aid them.
How then, could I fulfill my purpose?
Finally, I flew to the great forest outside the city. It is gone now, like so many things. But centuries ago, it was thick with pines. The humans avoided it, as it was haunted by beings of magic which inspired dreadful fear.
I spent years in that forest, happy enough listening to the whisperings of the rocks and trees, rooks and bees, though none of the fey creatures would speak with me.
Finally, one such being appeared at the mouth of my cave, his form silhouetted by the dying sun. He walked upright and dressed like a man in a tunic and furs, but his head was that of a stag, with sharp, gleaming horns.
“Gargoyle, what is your purpose here?” His voice boomed, and earth trickled from the cave roof.
My stone feathers quivered with excitement. “To learn! To discourse! To do good! Ah, at last I have found someone like me, a wise and great creature of magic. How marvelous that we should finally meet. You are of the fey, are you not? I have heard much of your kind.” And then I realized I had said too much and fell silent.
But he had understood I meant his kind no harm and set his spear aside. “If you wish to do good, there is a woodcutter…”
He told me an impoverished woodcutter lived deep inside the forest. The woodcutter had driven away his children to fend for themselves, but the small things would starve in the woods. Would I not guide them to a lovely forest cottage made of sweets, where they could dine to their hearts’ content?
(This is starting to sound familiar – Pen.)
It was my chance at goodness for the sake of goodness, and I agreed. The boy had left a trail of breadcrumbs to guide him back to their home. But hungry crows had snatched the crumbs away.
I collected stones and created a new trail to the tasty house, in a grassy clearing. The children, desperate for any guide, followed the new trail and found the house.
But something about the place left me ill at ease. I watched the children gorge themselves, then a bent old woman emerged from the cottage and bade them drink. When the children slept, she stuffed them into cages.
(Hansel and Gretel? Are you kidding me? – Pen.)
I watched where the old woman kept her key, and I slipped it into the pocket of the sleeping girl, for the boy clearly had little sense. Bread crumbs? What did he expect would happen? I had noticed that in a family, it is the women who have the most sense.
After that, I left the forest. In all my years there, I had eased not one soul’s suffering, had worked not one bit of magic in aid of another. And I could not trust the fey.
And so, I returned to the alchemist’s home, and presented myself to his eldest son. He was a rabbi and learned then to command me. I became his familiar, free no more, but doing much to the good.
(So, by giving up your freedom, which you needed for this eudaiwhatsit, you gained eudaisomething-something? I don’t get it – Pen.)
Then, consider this ancient riddle, which is not of my making: “The key to life and death is everywhere to be found, but if you do not find it in your own house, you will find it nowhere. Yet, it is before everyone’s eyes. No one can live without it; everyone has used it. The poor usually possess more of it than the rich. Children play with it in the streets. The meek and uneducated esteem it highly, but the privileged and learned often throw it away. When rejected, it lies dormant in the bowels of the earth. It is the only thing from which the Philosopher’s Stone can be prepared, and without it, no noble metal can ever be created.”
What am I?
(“Still don’t get it” – Pen.)
Riga and the Magician
You have one job. Save the girl.
The spotlight flooded the stage and glinted off the guillotine’s razor edge, and the magician started. Coils of blond hair dangled from the limp form imprisoned beneath the blade.
Applause from a single spectator echoed in the empty hall. My mistress, Riga, rose from her seat, and it creaked shut. She seemed oddly at home in the shabby theater. Its flaking gilt and moldering curtains only heightened her glamour. Riga was more comfortable with the antique. I suspected it made her feel younger.
I perched on the balcony, my stone feathers folded, still and silent as a humble stone gargoyle can be.
“Riga Hayworth.” The magician bowed, sweeping back his b
lack cape and doffing his top hat. “This is an unpleasant surprise.”
“There’d better not be a rabbit in that hat.” She examined her nails. “If you let Sarah go now, you might get some consideration during sentencing.”
His long fingers twitched. “All it will take is the pull of one lever, and the blade will drop. Then no more Sarah.”
“The police are on their way,” she said. “Another murder will only extend your sentence. Of course, since you’re mad as a hatter, I suspect you’ll be going away for a good long stretch regardless.”
“Mad?” His laughter echoed across the near-empty auditorium. “You think me mad?”
“There was no rational reason to kill all those people.” Moving fluidly, she strolled down the carpeted aisle toward the stage.
My talons clenched on the wooden railing, leaving pale scars.
“And all those weird methods – that was just showing off,” she continued. “I mean, drowning someone in a closet? Cutting that woman in half? The murders screamed the-magician-did-it! Be honest, you wanted to be caught.”
“I have alibis for all those killings.”
Riga stopped at the stage steps and canted her head. “Mm. But you’re a magician. The sheriff was almost convinced you might be a real magician, able to be in two places at once. But it’s an old trick. Your assistant pretended to be you.” Riga motioned toward the woman in the guillotine. “Did she get cold feet?”
“She panicked,” he snarled.
“That can happen when you discover you’re an accessory to murder,” she said dryly, “even if you’re only helping out a fifth-rate magician in a third-rate casino.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re wrong.”
“You snapped after losing your gig in Vegas,” she said, “then Reno, and now you’re stuck working here in Tahoe. Frank – can I call you Frank? Let’s face it, you’re doing this for the glory. You want everyone to know that the Amazing Franconi really is amazing. And the only way you’ll get the credit for the murders, is if you let me take you in.”
The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8) Page 9