Sal’s eyes darkened. “No, Riga, you don’t understand. I’m not the one in danger. You should never have seen Ankou. He’s a death fae. And when he comes, he won’t go away empty.”
Chapter 8
Riga looked askance at Sal. “He won’t go away empty? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Not without a soul.” The shaman sat on the bed with her arms folded, not quite meeting Riga’s gaze.
“Then there’s no problem. I’ve been reliably informed I haven’t got one.”
“I’m sorry, Riga. It’s my fault you’ve been sucked into this. I never thought...” Sal just shook her head, dreadlocks flying, their beaded ends clapping together. “But I should have. I was cocky. I know better than to bargain with the fae.”
“It’s done. Let’s deal with the problems at hand. You shouldn’t be alone, and I’m your protection, whether we like it or not.” Legends and old wives tales. She couldn’t afford to ignore them, not in her line of work. But she’d found most curses and death omens worked on the power of suggestion. She couldn’t afford to be ruled by them.
Sal nodded. “I’m out of beds, but the chaise lounge in the sitting room next door is comfortable. Why don’t you sleep there tonight? We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”
In the morning. It sounded so neat, simple.
While Sal went to get extra pillows and blankets, Riga scrounged her cell phone from her bag. She found Cesar’s number in her contact list, dialed.
“Cesar? It’s Riga.”
“Why are you calling me from the penthouse?”
Riga closed her eyes.
“You’re not in the penthouse,” Cesar said, his voice flat.
“Something came up, and I’m staying at a friend’s cabin. Donovan didn’t hire you to be my bodyguard, did he?”
Cesar sighed. “No. He just wanted us to help you keep the press at arm’s length. Do you need a bodyguard?”
“I need to speak to you and Ash – business. Can we meet tomorrow morning at the casino?”
Cesar took his time responding. “Yeah. But I’d feel better if I knew where you were now. And you need to call me before you arrive, so we can get you through any press.”
“It’s a deal.” Riga gave him the address of Sal’s cabin, and hung up, then called Sharon and left a message, asking if they could meet here rather than the penthouse.
She rose, wandering to the nightstand beside Sal’s bed, taking from it a hardback bound in faded green cloth. She examined the spine, worn by age. Something rustled behind her, and she turned.
Sal stood in the doorway, a bundle of blankets and a pillow in her arms.
Riga held up the book. “W.B. Yeats?”
The shaman marched into the sitting room, and dumped the bedding on the chaise. “He understood the fae folk.”
“Why would anyone want to?”
“Are you deliberately trying to provoke them?”
Yawning, Riga replaced the book. “No. I’m sticking with détente.”
Riga brushed past Sal, walking into the sitting room. Bone weary, she dropped heavily upon the chaise.
Sal hovered in the doorway. “This Donovan Mosse... He really your fiancé?”
“He proposed. He was arrested before I could answer.”
Sal sucked the air in between her teeth. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Riga picked up the blanket and held it to her chest, stroked it.
“Did he do it?”
“Everything I know about him says no. It isn’t logical. It’s not in character. What they’re accusing him of is so...” She shook her head. “I can’t have misjudged him that badly.”
“But?”
“But I’m a detective. I can’t go on love and faith. I need evidence. And so does Donovan.”
“Hm...” Sal gave her a skeptical look. “Have you lost faith in him, or in yourself?”
Riga stared through the octagonal window, high on the wall. It reflected the narrow room back at her. “Is there a difference?”
Chapter 9
Riga dreamed.
Her bare feet squelched in the damp earth, the pine needles on the forest floor a welcome barrier to the mud beneath. Dapples of sunlight danced along the path, shadows tossed by a warm breeze whispering through the trees. Water dripped steadily, plopping from the branches, trickling in weak streams, and splitting the soil.
The trail was familiar, the lake just over the rise. Donovan waited for her there. But as she crested the ridge, another rose before her. She hurried forward, and the path changed, darkened. The track grew boggier, the mud deepening, sucking at her feet. Her legs trembled with the effort of each step.
Donovan would wonder where she was, would worry, and she promised she’d be there. Unreasoning panic rose. She’d be late. She already was late. She had to move, to hurry, before he was gone.
A wheel creaked.
Riga froze, the back of her neck prickling.
Silence.
She took another step, and over the suck and drag of her feet lifting from the gluey mud, a wheel squeaked. Her head whipped toward the sound.
The air thickened, its dampness pressing upon her lungs. The drip and flow of water quieted, until all she heard was her own breathing and the banging in her chest.
Her eyes strained to pierce the darkness between the trees. Shadows moved, elongated.
Three pairs of eyes glowed white, unblinking.
She jerked awake, rising on one arm.
The heater rattled, and she started, then recognized the sound and grimaced. In the closed sitting room, the heat had grown sweltering, her back slick with sweat. No wonder she had dreamed of smothering heat and damp. Dawn light streamed through the high, octagonal window, casting the book shelves and carpets in a pale blue haze.
She slid off the leather couch, and folded the blankets, piling them neatly at its foot. In the next room, Sal snored lightly, and Riga felt a surge of affection for the woman. She was a good person, as stubborn as Riga herself, and Sal’s teachings had been Riga’s first step to understanding her magic. Riga owed her.
She’d dusted the threatening letters for prints. There’d been none. But she’d put them carefully back in their plastic bag anyway. Evidence.
Riga shrugged into a robe Sal had lent her, and slipped out to the balcony, taking in the view. The cabin was on a hill, the snow-covered ground sloping down and away, and she could see over the treetops to the sapphire lake beyond. A pair of footsteps made a trail into a stand of trees and back. Riga squinted, just making out an odd pile of stones on the ground beneath a broad pine.
She shook her head. Of course, Sal had made an altar to the local fae, and since Sal was actually a good faerie shaman, they’d start flocking round the house. The little creeps.
She ran through her tai chi form, trying to clear her head. Someone had swept the balcony, but the wood planks were slick, treacherous, and she moved more slowly than usual. Her thoughts were frayed wires, sparking with fear for Donovan, worry she couldn’t do both him and Sal justice. She could multi-task with the best of them. But it wasn’t right. Not with Donovan at stake.
Brigitte hurtled toward her, landing upon the railing with a bang, her wings flapping for balance, stone claws clenching and unclenching on the wooden rail.
Riga reared back to avoid a flapping wing. “What are you doing here? It’s daylight. Anyone can see you.”
The gargoyle’s stony feathers rippled. “People these days no longer see magic. Most are not like you, Riga. You see too much – some would say you see double.”
The gargoyle regarded her skeptically. “Ze shooting of ze poor Mademoiselle Michaelson makes Monsieur Donovan appear guilty. I fear the death of ze key witness against him will not work in his favor. You must remain bold, and brave, like me.”
“How did you find out about the shooting?”
“On ze television, of course. What else was I supposed to do while I waited for word from you? The local press remains cau
tious. Monsieur Donovan must have friends there. But ze cable networks have no such compunction, and have begun to try him in ze... How do you say? Court of public opinion.”
This was why Riga didn’t watch TV; it was all bad news. “What are they saying?” She raised a hand. “No, never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Have you been practicing your magic?”
“I can’t cast spells when I’m a guest in someone else’s cabin.”
Brigitte cocked her head, considering. “Would that be rude? But there is magic here, and it is not your own. Is this ze home of Ankou’s servant?”
“How did you find me?”
“I always know where you are. Now, I stand ready to assist. What shall we do? How shall we protect ze servant of the fae?”
“I... thought you disapproved.”
“I disapprove of many things – of you neglecting your magic, of this Ankou creature, of people who walk through life without seeing. But I was wrong. We have no choice. We must save ze fae’s servant and Monsieur Mosse.”
Riga met the gargoyle’s stony gaze. “Thank you.”
“Monsieur Mosse has been good to me, as well. So. What shall I do?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’m being pulled in two directions.”
“And which is your priority?”
“Donovan. The penthouse. The people there.”
Brigitte hissed. “Then I shall watch them, observe. They shall not know I am there. I will record their conversations faithfully. You can be assured of it!”
Riga smiled. ”Stakeouts get boring fast. Wait here.”
She retreated into the cabin, and picked up a hardback she’d found lying at the foot of her couch. The front cover had a picture of a tough looking woman in black leather hacking a zombie to pieces.
She returned to the balcony, and handed it to Brigitte. “It’s not your usual genre, but it came highly recommended.”
“By whom?” Brigitte asked, suspicious.
Riga turned the book over, pointed to the back cover blurb. “By one of your favorite mystery writers.”
Brigitte sniffed. “Hmph. Zombies. Well, it shall have to do, I suppose.”
The gargoyle flew off with the book in her claws, and Riga returned to her room.
She dressed, finger combed her hair and wrapped it in a pony tail, then tiptoed past Sal, closing the bedroom door quietly behind her. The cabin was still, but the scent of coffee wafted up the steps. Eagerly, she stepped off the first step.
Her foot caught, and she was flying through the air. For a moment she seemed to hang, suspended, and then she fell, the steps rising to meet her. She could count every knot in the carpet. She was going to die, and should have been afraid, but all she could muster was a resigned depression.
Then she was rolling, tumbling, and just as suddenly she was upright, at the foot of the landing.
She swayed, stunned by the suddenness of the fall, by its surprise ending.
A lanky black man stood in an open bedroom doorway, a cup of coffee poised before his full lips. She guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and judging by his cheekbones, Zara’s brother, Derek.
“Wow. You know how to take a fall.” He put the cup on the railing, shoved the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt up his well-muscled arms. “You okay?”
Her heart thundered in her chest. Was she okay? She didn’t feel any pain. Even the crick in her back seemed to have faded.
“Yeah. I’m okay.” Riga had done at least two somersaults. It was a miracle she hadn’t been killed.
Sal staggered out the bedroom door, pulling a fluffy pink bathrobe tightly about her. “What the hell was that? It sounded like something hit the cabin.”
He jerked a thumb at Riga. “The Flying Wazilla here came down the stairs head first.” The words were jokey, but there was an edge to his voice.
The door across the hallway banged open.
Zara stormed into the hall, her floral kimono robe flaring about her long, tawny legs. “What is wrong with you people? Some of us are sleeping!” She stopped short at the sight of Riga, and her eyes widened with surprise. “What are you doing here?”
Sal hurried down the steps, clutching her robe about her knees. “Shh! You’ll wake Aunt Lizzy. I meant to tell you Riga spent the night, but by the time you two got back, I was asleep.”
Derek furrowed his brow. “I thought this week was for family business.”
“It’s a long story,” Sal said. “Derek, this is my friend, Riga Hayworth. Riga, my cousin, Derek, Zara’s brother.”
He held out his hand, and Riga shook it. His skin was smooth on hers, his nails rounded and shiny. But his expression was wary. “Nice to meet you,” he said.
She nodded, still rattled by the fall.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you again,” Zara said to Riga.
“Reporters staked out my place, and Sal let me stay,” Riga said.
Derek’s body tensed. “Reporters?”
Sal outlined the Donovan situation, and he gave a low whistle. “So did he do it?”
“Derek,” Zara scolded. “What kind of question is that?”
He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Hey, I’ve been pulled over often enough for driving while black to give anyone the benefit of the doubt when it comes to cops. How long is she staying?”
Sal folded her arms across her chest. “As long as she needs. Besides, she’s helping me with the sale.”
Zara’s shoulders relaxed. “I’m glad you’re getting some help. I’m useless when it comes to that sort of thing.” She turned to Riga. “So are you a lawyer?”
“No,” Sal said, “but she managed and sold a company, and knows how to run the numbers. She’s helping me get things organized.” She turned to Riga. “In fact, I’ve got a box upstairs that we can start on after breakfast.”
“Great.” Riga eyed Sal apprehensively. Yes, she’d once run a company, and was self-employed now, but accounting was her least favorite activity. And from the satisfied expression on Sal’s face, Riga had the sinking feeling she wasn’t just saying this as a cover story.
Sal yawned. “I’m going to get dressed. See you downstairs.” She turned, and walked up to her room.
Zara shrugged, and returned to her own room, leaving Derek and Riga staring at each other.
“I’m getting breakfast,” he said.
Riga turned and walked slowly up the stairs, pausing at the top to look down. Derek had vanished.
She knelt at the top steps, examining them. She’d tripped over something, remembered the feel of it on her foot.
It wasn’t hard to find – a clear filament of fish wire, snapped in two, curling about one side of the banister. A piece of wire was still attached to a narrow, bent nail that had been hammered into the wooden railing. Riga found another nail, shiny and new, opposite.
This had been meant for Sal.
She went back to her room, and dug a plastic baggie, her fingerprint kit, and her cell phone from her bag. Returning to the head of the stairs, she snapped pictures of the trap that had been laid, putting the fishing wire in the plastic bag. She dusted for prints, but as with the threatening letters, came up empty. The nails were struck deep, and she decided to leave them.
Riga was sitting upon Sal’s unmade bed when the shaman emerged from the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a thick towel.
Sal stopped, surprised. “Don’t tell me you want to start on that paperwork now?”
Riga shook her head, and told her about the wire that had sent her headfirst down the steps.
Sal paled. “Are you sure?”
“Sal, you knew you were in danger. This confirms it. Send them home. Call the cops.”
The shaman bent from the waist, catching the towel as it slid from her head, scrunching it around her dripping dreads. “No.”
“Why not?”
She straightened. “Why did you take this job?”
“Because Ankou threatened to throw me off a building.”
Sa
l tossed the towel. It sailed past Riga’s head and landed on the bed. “He did? What did you do to make him do that?”
“What did I... How can anyone justify throwing someone off a building? You don’t throw people off buildings!”
“I’m just saying, faeries don’t do something without reason.”
“No one does, but that doesn’t mean the reason has to be sane.”
“What have you got against the fae?”
“They’re sociopaths with wings.”
“You just don’t understand them.”
“Oh, I understand them all right,” Riga said darkly.
“Well, you don’t understand me. I am not going to be intimidated. I am not going to live in fear. And I am going to figure out who’s harassing me.”
“I’m with you on all counts. But the fishing wire across the stairs was more than harassment. Someone could have been killed.”
Sal gazed steadily at her. “You mean I could have been killed. No one knew you were up here with me. Derek must have arrived after we went to bed.” She peered out the window. “There are two new cars outside – Martin must be here too.”
“But he didn’t get up to see what the racket was about. Neither did your aunt.” And Riga’s fall down the stairs had been far from silent.
“Lizzy sleeps hard. I’m not sure about her hearing.”
“Fine, she’s innocent as a newborn babe.” Riga stood, and stretched. The movement set off aches along her back. “I’m getting breakfast.”
Though the danger was past, Riga walked warily down the stairs, past Derek, sitting at a wooden table in the breakfast nook. He gazed morosely out the window, facing the street and the high banks of snow. To the left was the living room, and beyond its high windows, a snowy forest scene. The sun glittered through the trees, sparkling with moisture.
She walked into the kitchen, and made herself a cup of tea, spilling sugar granules across the black granite countertop. Riga swept them into her hand, and dumped them in the metal sink. She’d overfilled her cup, and walked gingerly to the rustic wooden table. Riga sat down across from Derek, her back to the window with its view of the snow and pines, and a neighboring cabin beyond.
“So Derek, are you from San Francisco too?”
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 6