“Better a poppet than a pipe bomb.”
“That’s what I like about you, Cesar. You always see the glass half full.”
“Right. Send me the list of names, I’ll get on it today.”
“Thanks,” she said to a dial tone.
She called the caterers and, using Donovan’s name as a bludgeon, got the names. Feeling productive, she e-mailed the list along with the names of the security guards on duty to Cesar.
The poppet stared blankly at her from the desk.
She stared back, drumming her fingers. Rising, she got a bell jar from one of the shelves, dropped the poppet inside, and packed the jar with salt. It was the coward’s way out – she wasn’t ready to destroy or cleanse the thing. Sooner or later, she’d have to trace the source of the malevolence.
Later.
Riga put the jar on the windowsill, where it caught the slivers of sun that penetrated the thick tree branches. The salt would do its job, block whatever the poppet had been designed to do, but sunlight was a beneficent force as well, and would help the process.
Donovan would be back at the casino, working. The aunts were there as well, she knew, playing.
It was time for her to join them, hunting.
Chapter 10
A wreath at the casino’s front door snagged Riga’s pea coat, and she stopped to free herself, knocking it from the door. She fumbled with it, trying to return it to its rightful place, but it resisted. Bah, humbug. She gave up, went inside, handed it to a passing waitress.
Riga turned left, taking a short cut across the hotel lobby.
Over the speakers, Bing Crosby sang about white Christmases. For a moment, Riga was there, nostalgia swelling, and then an alarm went off on a slot machine, yellow light flashing. Moment ruined.
Donovan’s designer had done a good job on the main floor, mashing up casino kitsch and Christmas classics. But in her mind’s eye she saw his vision for the remodeled casino, transforming it into an early twentieth century lodge. She still couldn’t quite reconcile that vision with slot machines, but the rest of the hotel would be a showcase.
Terry Mitchell walked past her, oblivious, and Riga watched the writer stride through the revolving door.
Her room would be empty.
Unless Cam was back.
She could go to Donovan, ask for the key, but she sensed she wouldn’t get it, that he was determined to throw up roadblocks.
Her shoulders twitched, and she went to the front desk, waiting until the young clerk had finished handing an electronic key to a round, gray-haired couple.
He glided along the marble counter to her, his hair slicked back, his bow tie narrow and sharp-edged. “Good day, Miss Hayworth. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Mosse asked me to collect the key to room 406,” she lied.
His eyes flickered. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes.”
“I thought Mr. Mosse had a master key?”
That was interesting, and Riga filed it away for future use. “He’s misplaced it. May I have that key now?”
The clerk reached for the phone. “I should confirm this.”
Smiling, Riga leaned her elbow on the counter, invading his space. “By all means. You call your manager, who’ll call Donovan, who’ll wonder why, when he sent me to keep this as quiet as possible, his staff did exactly the opposite.”
The clerk’s hand hovered over the phone.
Damn it. She’d pushed too far.
He turned away, pulled a key card from a file, handed it to her. “If there’s anything I can do to assist, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you.” Riga walked into the casino proper. She’d have to confess the clerk’s browbeating to Donovan. He wouldn’t like it. But she’d pay the piper.
She slipped the electronic key into the pocket of her khakis, wending through a maze of green-felted tables.
A man with a face like a ferret’s stepped into her path, and she stopped short, heart leaping, muscles tightening.
Vasily Gregorovich tsked, shaking his head, eeling closer. He ran his hand down the front of his red button-down shirt. It was open at the collar, exposing wiry black chest hairs. “Riga. You are very a bad girl when it comes to returning calls.”
“And you can’t take a hint.” The table beside her was unused, draped in beige cloth. Which meant fewer witnesses, less security.
She tried to step past him but he moved sideways, blocking her.
Two men built like truckers emerged from behind a bank of slot machines. The lights glinted off their suits, cheap and shiny and reptilian.
Riga crossed her arms. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. What do you want?”
“I only want to be your friend.” His gaze dipped to the “v” of her blouse. “I can be a very good friend, Riga.”
“The answer’s ‘no.’ What else?”
“Must there be something else?”
“There has to be something else, because we’ve been over the ‘let’s be friends’ theme before. Whatever else you are, you aren’t stupid, and it should be clear that we are not going to be friends.” She was talking too much. Stop babbling. Stop babbling.
“Whatever else I am? And what do you think I am?”
“A murderer, drug dealer, and money launderer. Did I miss anything?”
“I don’t deal drugs when there are more profitable and less risky deals to be had. I’m more of a… people person.”
Riga’s breath caught as his words sunk in. Dealing in people had become more profitable, and less risky, than dealing drugs. Women brought into the US had their passports taken, were beaten, brutalized, and turned to prostitution. The men became forced laborers on farms, in factories. The children… She didn’t want to think about the children. The official name for it was human trafficking. Politicians couldn’t bring themselves to use the real word: slavery. To call it by name meant admitting it was happening here, meant they’d have to do something. A spark of anger stirred.
“Get out,” she snarled.
“Why so prickly? I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Not from you.”
His black eyes narrowed. “I am losing patience with your attitude, Riga. Flirting, banter is one thing, but you go too far.”
She forced herself to slow her breathing, but her heart galloped. Slowly, she uncurled her fists. “I don’t know how else to say this to you. I’m not interested. Leave me alone. Go away.”
Vasily gestured and one of his goons grabbed her arm. She twisted, grabbed his wrist, drove down and he yelped, releasing her before his wrist snapped. Riga quick-stepped backwards. “I said, no!” She was shouting now, hoping security wasn’t far.
A blur of movement shoved her sideways, knocking her bag to the ground. Cam plowed into the second thug, tossed him against a slot machine. It wobbled, fell, crashing into the machine behind it.
A woman screamed.
Two more of Vasily’s men rushed in. Cam shook them off. His lean muscle should have been no match for the pure mass of Vasily’s men, but he easily batted them around, a cat with two-oversized mice. Three quick punches drove one of the thugs back. A gut kick sent another airborne. Riga’s mouth fell open. It wasn’t skill; it was power that violated the laws of physics.
Vasily moved toward her and her heart leapt in her throat. She took another step back, stumbled, her foot caught. She fell ass first, the back of her head bouncing off the leg of the card table. A bolt of pain flared through her skull. Her leg was caught in a stool. She tried to shake it off, failed. Vasily grabbed one end, twisted the chair, her ankle and she yowled, rolling to keep her ankle from snapping.
From the corner of her eye she saw Cam battling two more of Vasily’s men. One punched Cam in the gut. He didn’t flinch. He should have flinched. He should have doubled over from the force. But he brushed off their blows, landing punches that turned men twice his mass gray-faced. He was either on drugs or…
More shouts. Screams.
Riga’s breath burst in and out. Christ, where was security?
“Stop fighting me!” Vasily’s face contorted with fury, but his eyes had nothing behind them.
He released the chair and she kicked again, whacking him with it in the temple. Yes! She tried to sit up but something pinned her arm. She looked back, confused. What was holding her? All she saw was table leg.
Blood exploding in her veins, she swung her leg, the stool, at him. This time it flung off, dammit, careening down the carpeted aisle and into a slot machine. Riga pulled forward but her arm refused to budge.
Vasily reached behind him. A knife flashed in his hand.
She went cold.
The mobster’s eyes widened and he back-flipped through the air, landing on top of a card table.
With a roar, Cam was on him.
Riga rolled again, turned on her knees. Her arm had gotten wrapped in the ties that strapped the cover to the unused table. She tore them off and scrambled to her feet. Vasily’s men were unconscious, bleeding. The mobster was Cam’s punching bag. Vasily was doing a decent job blocking the blows, but he was tiring, his movements slow, jerky.
The photographer wasn’t even breathing hard. In fact, he didn’t seem to be breathing at all, she realized with dawning horror. Cam’s face was pale, bloodless. Beneath them, the table shuddered.
He was going to kill Vasily.
Her bad angel rejoiced. Vasily’s death wouldn’t be any great loss to the world, and would make Riga’s life easier. Her good angel couldn’t disagree, but killing Vasily would wreck the photographer’s life. Riga hung her head. Freaking good angel. She started forward, hand outstretched. “Stop!”
They didn’t hear her, Vasily crumpling beneath the beating, Cam’s arms pistoning.
Lightly, she put a hand on Cam’s shoulder.
He whirled, lips peeled back in a snarl. Cam whacked her arm away, his other hand gripping Vasily’s collar in a chokehold.
His eyes—fierce, feral – met hers, and she was rocked by recognition.
“Donov…” She stepped away. No. It couldn’t be.
Vasily gagged.
Security guards in white shirts rushed in, thrust her roughly aside.
Cam released the mobster, his lip curling in disgust.
Donovan strode into the crowd, beelined for the photographer. “What happened? Are you alright?”
Cam nodded at Vasily, crumpled on the floor. “Get him out of here.”
Riga watched in horrified fascination as Donovan nodded, said something to the guards. Donovan was taking orders from Cam. No. No, no, no.
The casino security hauled the beaten men to their feet.
Cam pushed through the crowd to Riga, cupped her head in his hands. They were cool against her skin. Room temperature. “Are you alright?”
“You’re not…” She peered up at him. Brown eyes. Curly hair. High cheekbones. Not Donovan. And yet… “Are you?”
He hung his head. “Sorry, Riga. I hoped to get this fixed before you found out.”
“No.” She had to be wrong.
He lowered his voice, face creased with guilt. “It’s me, Donovan.”
“Then who…?” She looked to Donovan. Broad shoulders. Trademark black suit. Green eyes. Cross-shaped scar on his jaw.
“Let’s go upstairs, where it’s private,” Cam said. “I’ll explain everything.”
She wished she could faint, let the world go black, awaken to soothing voices and a glass of something red and alcohol-fueled. But she wasn’t the fainting type.
She nodded. Upstairs. Private.
Cam put his hand on her lower back, and steered her through the casino to the private elevator. The guard standing outside it gave him a hard look, but said nothing, used his key card to open the elevator door.
The doors closed on them, and the elevator lurched upward. Adrenaline ebbing, she wrapped her arms tightly about herself. Her shin throbbed where it had been caught. Gingerly, she bent, rubbed it, wincing when she struck a tender spot. That was going to hurt.
Riga cleared her throat. “Where’s…?” She wasn’t sure what to call the man she’d left behind her in the casino. But he wasn’t Donovan.
“Dad will be up shortly.”
“Dad?! What the hell’s going on?”
The door slid open at the top. Cam/Donovan gestured, and she stepped into the penthouse foyer. The raven’s head at the top of the totem pole seemed to give her a weary look.
Dot and Peregrine fluttered across the gleaming wooden floors toward her, Pen at their heels, still in her black leather jacket.
“Riga,” Dot said. “What are you doing here?”
Riga dropped her bag on a chair against the wall. “What are you three doing here?”
Peregrine tucked her chin. “We were invited, of course. Pen finished that errand you sent her on and came to find us.” She nodded to Donovan/Cam. “Hello, young man. Good of you to escort our niece.”
“You can give it up, Peregrine.” He checked his face in a mirror above a side table. “She knows.”
“Oh,” Dot said, “what a relief! I’m such an awful liar. It’s placed terrible stress upon us both.”
“What are you talking about? What’s going on?” Riga was shouting, couldn’t stop herself.
“Didn’t you tell her?” Dot asked. “I thought you said you told her.”
“What?” Riga said. “Tell me what?”
Dot tilted her head to the side. “We reanimated that poor dead body in your bedroom. But something went wrong, and instead of Donovan’s father going into the body, he went into Donovan and Donovan went into the body. It’s been quite a mix-up.”
Pen clapped her hands to her mouth.
“What?” Riga heard the words, but they wouldn’t penetrate.
“It was a nasty shock for us as well,” Peregrine said. “You didn’t tell us about the black lodge. Had we known, we would have taken more precautions.”
“Black…” Riga shook her head, walked through the open doors into the library and to the bar. She reached for a bottle of Cabernet, hesitated, then reached for the whiskey, poured a shot. Riga knocked it back, grimaced.
This couldn’t be happening. For a moment, she allowed herself the luxury of believing it, that it was all a dream, a nightmare. But the whiskey bit her, pulled her out of the fantasy. She poured another shot.
Dust motes swirled lazily in the sunbeams sliding through the tall windows, across the leather furniture, book cases, dark wood, and the motionless Brigitte. Riga put the glass down.
Something rustled behind her, and she turned.
Dot peered anxiously up at her. Peregrine stood grim by the fireplace. Pen slithered into the room, slipping onto the arm of a leather couch.
Cam approached her. He moved like Donovan, with the grace of a big cat. It was jarring to see in Cam’s lanky frame.
“Explain this,” Riga said. “From the beginning.”
Dot nodded. “As I said, when we saw that poor dead body in your bedroom—”
“Such a lovely body,” Peregrine said.
“We don’t usually get them in such good condition.” Dot smoothed the front of her voluminous dress.
“What did you do?” Riga ground out.
“And there was the ghost of Donovan’s father, the elder Mr. Mosse, trying so hard to come through to our plane, but he couldn’t.”
“His energy was too chaotic,” Peregrine said. “Happens sometimes.”
“And of course your young man wanted to see him so badly. We didn’t know what to get him for a wedding present, and this just seemed too perfect.”
Riga picked up the whiskey bottle, and her discarded glass. “A wedding present?”
Dot blinked up at her. “Well, what do you get the man who has everything?”
“Not quite everything,” he said. “It’s my fault, Riga. I agreed to it.”
Riga clutched the bottle to her chest. “But… how? Only a very advanced necromancer could pull t
his off.”
Peregrine’s shoulders straightened. “That’s right.”
“But…” Riga stammered. “You’re not… You can’t be!”
Peregrine clicked her tongue with impatience. “Well, of course we are. It’s the family business.”
“More of a genetic inheritance,” Dot corrected.
“That’s dark magic,” Riga said shrilly. “You can’t inherit it. You can only choose that path.”
Dot tossed her head. “Fiddlesticks! Haven’t you been able to see dead people since you were young?”
“Mediums aren’t necromancers!” This was ridiculous. And awful, if it was true that her aunts were necromancers… Her stomach rolled over.
“And haven’t you been able to command them,” Peregrine insisted. “Bend them to your will?”
“No. I don’t command them,” Riga said.
Pen frowned. “But they always do what you tell them. You told me so once yourself.”
Riga whirled on her niece. “That’s not… You’re not helping!”
Gently, Dot pried the bottle and glass from Riga’s grip. “This won’t help, dear. Haven’t you ever wondered why you tend to stumble over so many dead bodies?” She nodded. “Oh yes, we’ve been keeping track of you.”
Riga opened her mouth, closed it.
“Ever summoned a demon?” Peregrine gazed at her shrewdly. “And don’t fib. I could always tell when you were lying.”
“Fine,” Riga said. “I’ve summoned demons. Lots of people do it.”
Dot cocked her head. “Why do you think you settled here, at Lake Tahoe? Everyone knows it’s a portal to the underworld.”
“It’s a ski resort,” Riga said.
“It’s a portal,” Peregrine said. “Where do you think the Tahoe lake monster legends came from?”
Dot giggled. “People are so foolish. Lake monsters!”
“Ever had congress with a death god?” Peregrine looked at Dot, and a smirk passed between them.
Dot burst out laughing. “Oh, Peregrine! You’re so bad.” She turned to Riga. “We know it all dear. That business with Hecate, I mean. We brought the two of you together.”
“For your own protection,” Peregrine said, gruff. “Necromancers can be a nasty bunch. All that power over life and death leads to delusions of grandeur. Always killing each other. Ever killed a necromancer? Sure sign you are one.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 7