Kirsten Weiss
The ELEMENTAL Detective
Book FIVE in the Riga Hayworth Series
Chapter 1
The palms outside rattled like bones, awakening Riga. A warm salt breeze slipped through the open door, and shivered across her bare skin. Beside her, the mattress sagged, the bed frame creaking an accompaniment to her own, steady breathing.
One breath, rising and falling. Her breath.
Muddled by sleep, she stilled, her heart leaping with a sudden jolt of adrenaline as she understood it wasn’t her husband beside her, weighting the bed. Riga kept her breathing steady, and extended her other senses. Probing. She opened her eyes, peering through her lashes. Through the open glass door, the moon illuminated a winged figure, hunched beside her on the hotel’s bed.
“Brigitte!” Riga sat up, torn between annoyance and the panic rising in her throat. She clutched the sheet to her breasts. “What are you doing here? Where’s Donovan?”
The gargoyle shrugged, the sound of rocks grating together, and the bed shifted. “Monsieur Mosse left an hour ago,” she graveled, a French-accented Lauren Bacall. “And his whereabouts are the least of your worries.”
Riga lurched to the left and reached for the bedside lamp. Instead, her fingers found emptiness, fumbled in the dark, then touched a wooden leg, upright, seemingly supporting nothing. Where the hell had the tabletop gone? Her fingers brushed a rounded stump and it fell over with a crash. Where the hell had the lamp gone?
She swung her feet out of bed, took two steps, and bashed her shin into something hard. Riga felt along the wall and smacked the light switch, cursing. Uncomprehending, she stared. Everything but the bed had been turned upside down. Cushioned wicker chairs. Wooden table. Television… She grabbed her silk robe, draped over an upside down ottoman, and slipped it on, walked to the entertainment center. That was still upright, but the TV inside had been inverted.
Wonder leaked past her anxiety. She sniffed. A trace of magic lingered, wild like a forest glade, elemental. Fae? She regarded the creative destruction she’d slept through, and amended that thought. Stealth fae. Dammit. She fumbled the belt of her robe.
“What happened to Donovan? Where is he?” Riga’s voice sounded shrill, even to her ears.
“Your husband left of his own accord.”
“Alone?” Riga motioned toward the mess. No, it couldn’t be happening again. Not another run-in with the faery world. Not here. Not now. “Did you see who—”
Brigitte’s stone-feathered head reared backwards. “I do not spy!”
“But you saw Donovan leave.”
“And then I waited by ze rocks until you woke up.”
“You woke me up.”
The gargoyle picked at her feathers. “I grew bored, and the sun will rise soon, and we have much to discuss.”
The diamond on Riga’s finger glinted, and she rubbed the back of her wedding rings with her thumb. She and Donovan hadn’t yet adjusted to island time, and both were rising well before daybreak. Donovan had probably woken up while she was sleeping and grown restless, hadn’t wanted to wake her. Of course he was safe. It couldn’t be happening again. That would be stretching the bounds of… She worked the knot on her robe. He was safe.
She swallowed, despising the remnants of fear that made her muscles twitch, and flipped her emotions to anger. Anger was simpler.
“For pete’s sake, Brigitte! We’re on our honeymoon. Whatever the problem is, it can wait.” Only two weeks ago, she and Donovan had had an undead crisis at their wedding. She just learned her niece may be a necromancer. Had just learned that she, herself, was a necromancer, albeit an unusual one, and connected in horrifying ways to dark magic. And Donovan was… God only knew what he was.
Brigitte tossed her head. “You and your niece are necromancers, even if you happen to be a terrible disappointment at the art. And I am here because I sensed dark magic, black necromancy, and not your own.”
“Well, of course not mine. I would hardly—”
“Black magic, Riga. Big magic. You cannot ignore this.”
“Faery tricks? Oh yes, I can ignore them.” She allowed herself to hope. After all, these were just silly pranks. It wasn’t as if someone had died.
“Not ze furniture. Something else, something terrible. This is serious.”
“No. It’s always serious,” Riga snarled. “And there’s always something terrible coming. Let someone else deal with it this time.”
Riga righted the bedside table, replaced the clock and lamp. “It’s four A.M., and I’m on my honeymoon. Go away.” Well-traveled and just north of forty, Riga was experienced enough to know she had a lifetime ahead of her with the man she loved. This honeymoon was just an interlude. But their first week in Hawaii had been blissfully supernatural-free, and she’d hoped...
The gargoyle flapped her wings. “Ze honeymoon is over! Put your big girl pants on and stop ze dark magic.”
“Put your big girl… Did you get that from my niece? And you’re supposed to be watching her, training her.”
“Pen is fine. You, however, are headed for big trouble.”
Riga righted a chair. Her stomach tingled unpleasantly. “This is Hawaii. I’m sure they’ve got their own shamans and kahunas. They don’t need me.”
The gargoyle shook her head. “But this magic is—”
The lock on the bungalow door clicked.
“Get out,” Riga hissed.
“But—”
“Out!”
The gargoyle’s stone muscles tensed beneath her stony feathers, and she leaped, wings angling to soar through the open glass doors.
Donovan edged inside, carrying a wooden tray laden with fruit and juices, and relief flooded her senses. Rumpled raven-black hair, broad shoulders, chiseled features, green eyes that crinkled around the edges. He stopped and took in the disarray, his expression shifting to surprise. “Redecorating?”
“Not me. You know how I feel about morning exercise.”
His eyes glinted. “Not all morning exercise.”
Riga’s heart beat faster, warmth spreading through her. She contemplated her new husband – her first. She was his first, too, which had struck her as miraculous given his age (mid-forties) and astonishing good looks. Donovan owned a chain of casinos, and the patina of money and power made him even easier on the eyes to most women. While she couldn’t claim complete immunity to those charms, Donovan was so much more. He was someone to grow old with, an idea she’d once found trite but no longer.
As for herself, Riga knew why she’d stayed on the shelf. Ever since her college years, she’d been a magical freak, and a powerful one. Last year, her life had changed and that power had flickered, turned erratic. And life had grown dangerous.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Menehunes, maybe.” She grimaced. “This has the smell of fae about it.”
He nudged the door shut with his bare foot and the tray wobbled, threatening to stain his loose, white linen shirt with orange juice. Catlike, he regained control. “What are menehunes?”
“The Hawaiian little people.”
He eyed the overturned bureau. “How little?”
Smiling, Riga righted a chair. “I’ve never actually met one.”
“And they turned our bungalow upside down because…?”
“They’re known as tricksters.”
“Annoyances, is more like it.” He handed her the tray, and ran his hands down her arms, to her hips.
“Or they might just want to let us know they know we’re here.”
“That’s one of the many things I love about being with you. You introduce me to the most unusual… people.”
Her heart turned over
. And that was one of the many things she loved about him. He didn’t just accept the magic, he embraced it, another adventure. But he was new to the magical world, and the fae weren’t the cutesy faeries of Victorian greeting cards. They could be capricious, deadly. “The fae aren’t people. And I’d rather they stay out of our honeymoon.”
“Hold that thought.” He flipped the table, took the tray from her, and placed it on top. “You were saying?”
“They might have been trying to send us a message. Brigitte—”
“Forget the faeries.” His mouth claimed hers, and her blood hummed in her veins.
His lips drifted to the arch of her neck, and his attention drifted lower.
She gasped. “But…”
There was something she had to tell him. Something…
He smelled of ancient forests, wild and primal, and heat rose inside her. She found the buttons of his shirt. “Later,” she said, her voice husky.
Their lovemaking was slow, sweet. And when they lay curled in a drowsy knot, he bent over her and brushed her lips, and heat flared between them again. Afterward, he pulled her into the wide shower and they bathed, and then settled down for breakfast on their balcony, watched the stars dim. The sky over the Pacific lightened to gray and the curve of Hanalei Bay took on definition, mountains rising in the background.
She sighed. “Is this heaven?”
Donovan’s broad hand covered her own. “It ought to be.”
“Only one week left in paradise.” Riga brushed a fleck of croissant off her short-sleeved blouse, and it fell to the lap of her white skort.
“I couldn’t take more time away,” he said.
“You were a marvel to manage two weeks.” Donovan’s casino in South Lake Tahoe was still in rocky condition. And he owned other casinos as well, in Las Vegas and Macau. But she hadn’t seen him check his e-mail once, or more than glance at his smart phone.
“And we can always come back.” His thumb traced a pattern in her palm, leaving it tingling.
“Mm…”
He rose. “Shall we?”
She let him pull her out of the chair. He unlatched the patio gate and they stepped into soft sand. They were staying in one of the hotel’s private bungalows, tucked amidst kukui trees behind a small private beach.
They walked past a tangled banyan tree, and clambered onto a pile of smooth rock, slick with sea spray. Donovan froze, the grip on her hand tightening.
“Do you hear that?”
She strained to listen, caught a woman’s soft sobbing.
Slowly, they picked their way over the pile of large rocks. At the top, a woman’s outline, semi-transparent, blurred. The Christmas lights on a kukui tree shimmered through her bathing suit, through her slim arms and legs, glittering off the water droplets in her hair.
“Hello,” Donovan said. “Can we help?”
She ignored them, and Donovan gave Riga an apologetic look. It wasn’t the first ghost they’d seen on the islands. None had been aware of their presence, and this one seemed no exception.
“I had to try,” he said. “There’s nothing worse than hearing a woman crying.”
The ghost turned and walked through him.
He winced. “I take it back. That’s worse.” But he watched the woman disappear into the trees, his expression regretful.
Riga watched too, her scalp prickling. She touched his hand. They both knew the ghost would become aware when she was ready. “We’ll be here another week. Who knows? Maybe she’ll notice us.”
He nodded, and led her onto a long stretch of beach, curving around the bay.
Gentle waves lapped the sand, covering their feet and ankles, and Riga felt that strange disorientation of the earth being sucked from beneath her. She stooped to pick up a cowry shell.
A sweet miasma choked her throat. The world slipped sideways, and she stumbled as her other senses recoiled from the scent of dark magic, rotting, sulfurous. And then it was gone, as if carried off by the wind.
Donovan caught her arm. “Careful.”
“Thanks.” Not now, she prayed. The fae were one thing, but dark magic was quite another.
They walked on, skirting rocks and bits of driftwood. Palm trees still wrapped in Christmas lights twinkled along the shore.
“What do you think of our hotel?” Donovan asked.
“I love it, of course,” she said, looking at him curiously. Donovan had chosen the hotel, and it wasn’t in his nature to seek approval or validation.
“But what do you think about it?”
“Spectacular location, recently renovated interior with a modern, eco-chic feel, a bar and restaurant that makes me want to stay in… What’s not to like? Why? Has it given you ideas for your casinos?”
The sky above the mountains pinked, shot through with ribbons of gold. But a chill rippled through her. The sense of dark magic had returned, crawling along the edge of her awareness, making her want to run. She stopped, tightening her grip on his hand, probing with her senses.
“It’s our casino, now,” he corrected. “And no. Those are two different worlds. I’m thinking of…” He stopped, frowning.
She followed his gaze. Something lay still on the beach. No, she realized, two somethings. But one was bloated, misshapen. Its image flickered, as if a television channel had been switched. “Oh, my God.”
Donovan was running across the sand.
Too late.
Riga already knew – the somethings were dead.
Chapter 2
Bare feet dragging in the damp sand, Riga trudged toward Donovan and the two motionless figures. Donovan knelt beside the smaller lump and as she neared her chest tightened, the full horror revealing itself. Orange tape flapped loosely, tied to two pegs in the ground before a man and a… She blinked. A seal? Blood stained the sand around their shattered skulls and her stomach rolled.
A shutter dropped over her mind and she tried to view the scene dispassionately. Bullet wounds to both heads. A good bit of damage, so a larger caliber. Dark magic tugged at her senses, a sickly sweet cocktail that both repelled and attracted her. She clapped her hand over her mouth, acid rising in her throat, and focused on the torsos. The man was well-dressed, in expensive boating shoes and creased khakis. He wore a blue windbreaker with the logo from their hotel. A guest? An employee? “That’s a hotel jacket,” she said.
Donovan looked up. “It’s Dennis Glasgow, the owner.”
She nodded. Of course they’d chosen a hotel where the owner would be murdered. On the other hand, they hadn’t picked the hotel, Donovan had. Which meant… She rubbed a spot above her left eyebrow. What did it mean?
The morning light had turned pale gray, and if there were footprints in the sand, Riga couldn’t interpret them, so she looked for other signs. And they were there, a circle drawn in the sand around the bodies as if with a stick. She squinted. The slanting pre-dawn light illuminated magical sigils carved in the loose sand. A sour taste rose in the back of her mouth. The magical symbols could only mean one thing.
“This tape…” She motioned toward the pegs, the plastic, orange ribbon.
“It looks like the beginning of one of those barriers people put up around the seals, to warn others away,” Donovan said.
She relaxed her gaze and turned to the seal. Its image flickered again, something with a long tail, scales, and then it was just a poor, dead seal. Opening herself up, she probed deeper, let the boundaries fall away. Terror. Rage. A dark wave washed over her, nauseating. She gagged, stumbled toward the ocean and fell to her hands and knees, retching.
Behind her, Donovan’s footsteps pounded in the sand. He touched her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, and wiped her mouth with the back of one hand. Cold sand pressed into her palms, her knees. “Magic,” her voice trembled. “A sacrifice. Black necromancy.”
He rubbed his broad hand along her back, and a soothing warmth spread where he touched. “I’ll call the police.” His voice was tight. Donovan drew hi
s phone from his pocket, called 9-1-1.
She sat down in the sand, legs crossed, staring at the roll and swell of the ocean, half listening to the conversation. The wind picked up, tossing her auburn hair. Magic was involved. Which meant she was involved. She was a metaphysical detective, with a P.I.’s license. Walking away from this type of murder would be like an off-duty paramedic walking away from a choking victim – legally correct, but soul destroying and morally wrong. But now, on her honeymoon? She scrubbed a hand over her face, torn between frustration and guilt over her desire to walk away.
Donovan ended the call. “I need to make sure no one disturbs the body.”
She nodded, began to rise, but he put a hand on her shoulder.
“You can stay here, catch your breath,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, grateful. “It’s hard to tell in this light, but I think someone drew a magic circle and sigils around the bodies. Be careful where you step.”
She watched him trudge back to the bodies. Dark magic they could handle. Donovan had said he knew what he was in for when they married, and he brought some magic of his own to the partnership. But she’d hoped they’d catch a break on the islands, that mayhem wouldn’t prick their bubble of happiness.
She wasn’t used to being responsible for the happiness of another, though Donovan would consider his happiness his sole responsibility. And she wanted to make him happy.
A wave washed her stomach contents into the bay. At least she’d made some fishes happy.
She looked over her shoulder. Donovan stood relaxed, the wind pressing his loose linen shirt and trousers against his muscular frame. And now her new husband was guarding two corpses.
The police arrived quickly. First a white squad car. Then an ambulance. Then another squad car. A man in uniform drew Donovan aside and took notes in a small pad. Donovan rubbed the back of his neck, pointed down the beach, toward their hotel.
Riga stood, brushing the sand from the back of her skort. Her mouth tasted of bile. Until she could get back to the hotel and her toothbrush, she’d need to keep downwind of Donovan and the detective.
A tingle of energy tickled the edge of her awareness.
5 The Elemental Detective Page 1