5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  Donovan strode easily up the muddy hill, Riga’s legs clamped around his waist.

  She held her breath, waiting for a stumble, a slip. But his movements were smooth and sure. At the top of the hill, he wasn’t even breathing hard.

  He was quiet for a time, then, “We got lucky. If Trader hadn’t grabbed you...” His muscles tensed beneath his shirt. “You have the oddest guardian angels.”

  “I count you as one,” she said in his ear.

  He chuckled. “How are you doing back there?”

  “I’ve got the easy job. You?”

  “I’m great.”

  A hiker passed them, slipping and cursing beneath his backpack.

  Donovan’s chest rose and fell easily beneath her locked wrists, his breath unhurried. He was in good shape, she knew, but this was a rough trail even under dry conditions. Wet, it was a nightmare.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Donovan, how are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Walking the trail.”

  “I’m just walking.”

  “Hm.” She relaxed her gaze, extended her senses. The jungle breathed around them. Multi-colored auras shimmered off the trees and rocks and earth, bending toward them as they passed. Donovan’s aura glowed bright gold, shot with green and pale purple. The aura of a kukui tree, green tinted with gold, reached for him, mingled with Donovan’s energy body. Where they touched, both flared brightly.

  “Wow.” Her eyes widened.

  “What?”

  She squeezed him more tightly. “Your aura is… interacting with the auras of the trees, and even the mud path. It’s like an aurora borealis of energy fields.”

  “And that’s not normal?”

  She thought about it. “I’ve never been that good at aura reading,” she said slowly. “And I haven’t seen auras surrounding plants and stones before. It makes sense that the spirit of a place would affect a person’s aura, just like it would affect their mood. But this is amazing.” She laughed, giddy.

  “What does my aura look like?”

  “Mardi Gras,” she said promptly.

  “Mm. The Big Easy. We should go to New Orleans. I know a bar in the French Quarter that makes the best hurricane.”

  She kissed him beneath his ear. “Promise me beignets, and I’ll follow you anywhere.”

  Without Riga slowing them down, the return trip took half the time, and soon they were passing the trailhead, tramping down the road lined with cars. Donovan deposited her at the Ferrari.

  He examined his shoes critically. A thin layer of mud crusted the soles. “I’m going to wash these off before getting in the car. Wait here. I’ll get some water so we can both clean up.” He grabbed the empty water bottles and headed for the picnic area near the beach.

  Riga looked at her shoes. Since she’d been Donovan’s passenger, they looked fairly clean after their soaking in the river.

  On the opposite side of the street, the cave waited, empty.

  Straightening off the car, she hobbled across the road. Riga hesitated in the cave’s mouth. It was wide enough that the afternoon sun easily lit the expanse. It was empty, safe. Still, Riga made no move to go inside. She had no idea why the shaman had wanted her on the trail. To see the auras? The ghosts? Or was it the cave that held the secret? Menehunes – the Hawaiian fae. She shuddered. More faeries. Did she really want to know why they’d been invading their bungalow? But it was magic, and in spite of herself, she couldn’t resist.

  Riga forced herself to relax and focused on her breathing, extended her senses into the cave. Her skin tingled, as if brushed by soft fur. Something was inside. A friendly.

  The cave had a soft, sandy floor dotted by occasional smooth rocks, and a high ceiling of dark, uneven stone glistening with damp. Wary of another twist that would send her knee past the point of no return, she bowed her head, watching every step.

  Rocks grated against each other and she looked up. The rock breathed, swelling. Stone shifted, a piece separating from the main, and Brigitte’s head twisted toward her, owl-like.

  “I knew you would find me,” the gargoyle said.

  “I wasn’t looking. What are you doing here?”

  “Camouflage. This lovely stone perfectly matches ze color of my wings. And ze magic of the place…” Brigitte’s feathers rippled. “It is delightful. But what are you doing here, if not seeking me out?”

  Riga jerked her thumb toward the cave entrance. “Donovan and I were hiking the trail.”

  “Hiking? Hiking?! You are supposed to be investigating! You have a duty to ze dead.”

  “I have a duty to my husband too. We are on our honeymoon. And—”

  “And he knows ze consequences if you reject your calling.”

  “My calling is death, Brigitte. And it goes on whether I’m there or not.”

  “Faugh! You can be such a teenage girl. Not even your niece, ze brave Pen, wallows in drama as much as you do. In ze first place, any fool can see your husband craves excitement. Nothing would make him happier than to assist me on a case.”

  “Assist you?”

  “And,” the gargoyle continued loudly, “your calling is not death. It is to avenge wrongful death. Ze dead are here, Riga, and they deserve peace.”

  “Magic is here, too, a magic that’s very different from my own. I felt something call me to the trail. That’s why we were exploring it.”

  “And did you find anything?”

  “No,” Riga admitted. “Though someone did nearly kill me.”

  “Well, that at least is promising.”

  “Besides, subtract the tourists, and this is a small community. Every local I talk to is a potential information source.”

  Brigitte sniffed. “There are not many locals on this trail.”

  “Not live ones,” Riga muttered.

  “What?”

  “So this is the menehune cave,” Riga said. Voices drifted to her and she turned quickly. Three silhouettes of hikers jogged past the mouth of the cave.

  “Ah, ze Hawaiian little people?” Brigitte shrugged. “Perhaps. I heard that it is the cave of an evil mermaid who lures handsome men to their deaths.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Ze tourists. They have been coming and going all day. One even took a photo of me. She thought I was an intriguing rock formation. Which is, of course, true.”

  “Seen any mermaids?”

  “No.” Brigitte sighed. “I would like to see a mermaid. There is something about the magic of these islands. Ze elements, they are closer, do you not feel it?”

  Brigitte was right – the water, the trade winds, the volcanoes spewing fire and earth, here they all seemed more raw, more powerful.

  “When Donovan was attacked yesterday, when we were swimming,” Riga said, “he was pulled under, and then he felt magic and was released. But none of it seemed dark. Just wild, like the elements. But the bodies we found on the beach… The magic I sensed there was clearly black necromancy.”

  “Mermaids? Menehunes? Hawaiian magic? I cannot help you with these things. But we know how to deal with ze black necromancy. Riga, my advice is to play to your strengths.”

  Riga gnawed her lower lip. “There’s a flaw in that plan.”

  “Oh?”

  “The local magic. It’s somehow involved too. I can’t ignore it. And Donovan…”

  “What about Monsieur Mosse?”

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. She didn’t want to tell Brigitte about his experience on the trail, how he’d thrived on that magic. That was Donovan’s secret to tell. But he’d always had a special connection to nature. It was a part of him, and perhaps she was worrying for nothing.

  A breeze scented with malice lifted Riga’s hair. She turned sharply, senses straining. Magic buzzed through her, unpleasant, cloying. Then it was gone. She rubbed the back of her neck. “Brigitte, did you sense magic just now?”

  “I always sense magic. It is everywhere, especially here.” Brigitte shifted on the rock
face. “And that is what you must remember. Magic is magic. Ze principles are always ze same. It is like that alchemist, Newton’s, laws – you cannot escape gravity.”

  “But that’s not true. Newtonian physics – his laws of gravity – don’t work on Mercury. That’s why quantum physics was developed.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth. Of course things had gone haywire on Mercury; he was the trickster god.

  Brigitte sniffed. “We stand on ze planet Earth, not Mercury. Do not talk nonsense. You know how to protect yourself.”

  But could she protect the one she loved?

  Chapter 7

  “Riga?” Donovan’s figure was a broad-shouldered silhouette at the cave mouth.

  The gargoyle ducked her head and vanished into the rock ceiling.

  Limping, Riga hurried to him.

  “We have to go,” he said. “Now.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He placed a hand beneath her elbow, and steered her across the street. “Melee on the beach. And it’s growing.”

  She stopped beside the Ferrari, astonished. “A melee? An actual brawl?”

  He opened the door for her. “And if we get involved, it will just get worse. I’ve called the police. They’re on their way. We need to go.”

  She nodded, slid into the car, her leg twisting. Pain sparked in her knee, and she winced.

  He closed the door and leaned in, eyes darkening with concern, and handed her a water bottle. “It’s cold. If you hold it against your knee, it might help with the swelling until we can get to an icepack.”

  “Thank you.” She pressed the bottle to her knee. It rolled awkwardly over her leg, but the cool was a blessed relief, and muscles she didn’t realize were clenched, relaxed.

  The wind carried sounds of the fight from the beach. Shouts. A woman’s angry scream.

  Striding to the driver’s side of the convertible, Donovan vaulted the door and maneuvered them out of the tight parking spot. They flashed past ramshackle homes and taro fields and stopped beneath a tunnel of trees at a one-lane bridge, waiting for the cars coming in the opposite direction to pass.

  “What the hell’s going on?” she said. “First some jerk knocks me into a river and now a brawl on the beach? This is Kauai! How can you be angry in paradise?” Riga thought of what she’d wanted to do to that man on the trail and flushed. Dumb question. She knew how to be angry anywhere. Oh, how she knew. Propping her elbow on the car door, she blew her breath out.

  “I didn’t see the fight start,” he said, “but it built quickly. That sort of thing always does. You should see the security footage of the knockdown, drag-outs at the casinos.”

  “Yeah, people can be jerks. But this…” She pressed the bottle to her forehead. A dull ache had sprouted behind her eyes. “A necromancer killed Dennis. The magic I sensed, the sigils drawn around his body all point to it. But there’s something else going on. It pulled you underwater and sent me a vision. I’d like to talk to a local shaman or magician. I just don’t know where to look for one.”

  “I might be able to get you a lead. I wanted it to be a surprise, but I’ve arranged for a lomi lomi massage. We’re headed there now. I thought it would be a treat after our hike.”

  She put the bottle down and gazed at him in admiration. “You are a sexy genius.”

  “But maybe we should find you a doctor, first. I don’t like the look of that knee.”

  “No, no, no. Don’t dangle magic Hawaiian massages in front of me and then yank them away. That’s just cruel. My knee will be fine. And a lomi lomi masseuse might know some local magical practitioners.”

  He grinned. “Good, because we’re almost there.”

  His cell phone rang. He touched a button on the steering wheel. “Mosse here.”

  “Mr. Mosse.” A woman’s voice emerged from the speakers near their heads. “I’ve arranged for cocktails on the beach at seven o’clock tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Rogin, the owners of the home on the beach where Mr. Glasgow was found.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.” He hung up.

  The voice had sounded vaguely familiar to Riga. Someone from the hotel? “It must be nice to have minions.”

  “It is.”

  He slowed, consulted a map folded on the seat between them, and turned down a narrow red-dirt road lined with palms and blossoming red and yellow hibiscus. They bumped to a stop at the end of a drive, before a complex of small tin-roofed homes with wide verandas.

  Donovan jumped out of the car and opened Riga’s door, helping her out.

  “Seriously, my knee’s not that bad,” she said, laughing.

  “Any excuse,” he rumbled, putting his arms around her.

  “Oi!” A large Hawaiian woman emerged onto one of the verandas. Her mumu swayed in the breeze of an overhead fan. “None of ‘dat here.” But she was grinning.

  They broke apart, sheepish, and Donovan walked to stand at the base of the wooden steps. “Hello. I’m Donovan Mosse, and this is Riga. We have an appointment with Aunty ‘Akamu.”

  Her black hair, streaked with gray, was knotted in a bun. She smoothed it, tucking the plumeria blossom over her ear in more firmly. “Aloha. I’m Aunty. And I know who you are. Come in, come in!” She stood aside from the front door, and her wide brow creased when she saw Riga’s knee. “You’ve been on da Kalalau trail, haven’t you?”

  Riga grimaced. “Is it that obvious?”

  “You’re not da first tourist who thought it would be a good idea to hike that trail and then get a massage. You won’t be the last.” She ushered them into a simple room with a rag rug and cushioned, bamboo-frame chairs and couches.

  Riga and Donovan sat beside each other on a couch.

  Using a table for leverage, Aunty got on one knee and examined Riga’s leg, tsking. She grunted, hauling herself to her feet. “Manuku!”

  A young man with a thick shock of dark hair entered the room from a side door, wiping his hands on a rough towel. “Yes, Aunty?”

  “You take Mr. Mosse to da pavilion. I will work with Mrs. Mosse.”

  He nodded to Donovan. “Aloha. This way, sir.”

  Aunty ‘Akamu watched them leave, and sighed. “If I was thirty years younger… You have a handsome husband, Mrs. Mosse.”

  “I agree. And please call me Riga.”

  She laughed. “Like da city in Latvia? I thought you were going to tell me your name was Rita, like that actress. You look just like her you know, Rita Hayworth. Though maybe you don’t know. She was a pin-up girl a long time ago.”

  Riga’s smile was brief. “She was more than a pin-up.”

  “Yes. She led an eventful and sad life, like so many beauties of her day. Come with me.” Aunty ‘Akamu turned and lumbered into a narrow hallway, and then out a rear door into a grassy yard.

  The afternoon sun made long shadows on the lawn. Riga walked behind the woman to a corner sectioned off by tall white screens. Water trickled somewhere – low, steady, soothing.

  “This way.” The older woman vanished behind one of the screens.

  Riga followed. The screens had been arranged to form a square outdoor room, with a massage table covered by a white sheet in the center. In one corner, a bamboo fountain trickled water into a stone bowl. In another, stood two Adirondack chairs.

  Aunty ‘Akamu lowered herself into one. “Sit.”

  Riga sat.

  The Hawaiian woman leaned forward, hands on her knees. “So, before we get started, let’s talk about lomi lomi. Lomi lomi is a massage based on huna. Huna means secret. And da secret is that everything and everyone wants harmony and love, and that harmony and love is all energy. Lomi lomi will help your body unblock the energies so you can relax, feel better in body, feel better in your mind. And it helps if you set an intention for this healing. What would you like?”

  To find a killer and get on with her honeymoon. “Unblocking energies would be great.”

  “Okey dokey.” She rose. “Plenty of privacy here. Take off your clothing and hang it there.” Sh
e pointed to a metal hanger hooked over the edge of one of the screens. “Wash up there.” She pointed to a metal bucket filled with water and a towel folded neatly on a small table in a corner. “Then dry off and get under da sheet. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Riga undressed, grateful to be free of her sweat-soaked clothing, then sponged herself off with the cool water from the bucket. On the table, the light sheet skimmed across her skin, and she tried to relax. The running water, the warm breeze scented with salt and steaming vegetation, were all ingredients for Nirvana. But her rage at the hiker, the horror of Dennis’s death, nagged.

  Aunty ‘Akamu coughed. “Are you ready?”

  “Mm hm…”

  There was a shuffling sound, and Riga looked up.

  The woman folded one of the screens inward, revealing the conical mountains, carpeted in emerald. “Plenty of privacy,” she repeated. “But we want to enjoy the view, too, eh?”

  “It’s lovely,” Riga said. “What an amazing place to live.”

  “Yes,” she said, non-commital, “but even paradise had a serpent.”

  Aunty ‘Akamu stood beside Riga and closed her eyes, resting her hand lightly on Riga’s back. She stood this way for several minutes, and warmth spread through Riga.

  The massage began. With fluid, wavelike motions, Aunty ‘Akamu used her forearms and hands and Riga’s muscles dissolved. She didn’t want to fall asleep and tried to focus on what the woman was doing. Beneath the hole in the table for her head, Aunty had placed a bowl of water where a hibiscus blossom floated, and Riga watched it drift, gently scraping the sides.

  The woman shuffled around the table, hips swaying, and Riga wondered if this was hula or huna or something else. And then she was drifting, rocking as if upon a surf board. Rolling gently up and down.

  Riga lurched hard to the side and her eyes flew open. The ground trembled, and she clutched the table, bucking beneath her, the earthquake growing in strength. A red gash opened on a mountain, widened, and she realized in horror she was watching a mud slide.

  “Be aware now. It’s over.” Aunty ‘Akamu’s voice broke the spell, and Riga jerked, gasped, heart pounding.