5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  Brigitte’s shadow passed before the crescent moon. It glowed weakly through the clouds smothering the stars above.

  Donovan swerved to avoid a boulder in the middle of the road, and Riga grasped the door handle to steady herself, her jaw tightening.

  “Let’s hope the earthquake didn’t do any serious damage,” he said.

  Aside from the wide-eyed people standing in the road, aimless, frightened, things had seemed normal when they’d left the hotel. Riga, a native Californian, estimated it was a five on the Richter scale – the damage would depend entirely on how well the buildings were constructed.

  Donovan turned the Ferrari down a residential road lined with palm trees and large houses. The lights of their car illuminated a green sign for the Spouting Horn.

  “How far from the Spouting Horn do you think the spell was cast?” he asked.

  “Not far, but I’m not sure in which direction.”

  Another sign for the Spouting Horn, an arrow into the parking lot, dark, empty. Donovan pulled in and killed the ignition. Quiet crept in, broken only by the ticking of the car’s metal contracting and the far off crush of waves.

  “Give me a minute.” Riga closed her eyes, broadened her senses. Something tugged her to the left, and she turned her head. “That way.” She pointed.

  They crossed the parking lot and snapped on flashlights. Riga’s beam passed over a warning sign. They strode past it, scrambled down the slick rocks.

  There was a hollow, gurgling sound, like water in old pipes, and then a whoosh. Vapor danced across Riga’s bare arms.

  Donovan skimmed the light across the rocks. “There.” He darted forward.

  She didn’t see anything, but followed, stumbling across the uneven ground. Her light bobbed over the jagged rocks, casting weird shadows.

  Another gurgle of water. Closer. Louder. And then a gusher roared up before her. She swore. Water drenched the front of her tank.

  “Careful,” he said.

  Christ. She’d nearly fallen into the blowhole. Would have fallen in if the water hadn’t chosen that moment to spout. She steadied her breathing, crept forward more carefully, eyes straining. A rock skittered from beneath her sandal.

  And then… silence. The sound of the waves, the gurgling in the blow hole, Donovan’s footsteps, all fell away. The blanket of stillness disoriented her, and Riga stopped, swaying, ears straining.

  A chill rippled up her spine. They weren’t alone.

  Someone was watching.

  “We’re too late,” Donovan said, breaking the spell.

  The sound of waves rushed back in and something loosened inside her chest. She hurried to Donovan’s side, heedless of the uneven stone.

  His flashlight illuminated a mournful gray figure on the beach. Another seal, its skull shattered by a gunshot wound.

  She relaxed her gaze and for a moment it was there, a woman, bare-chested, staring, a bloody hole in her temple. And then the image flickered, and it was just a seal.

  The gargoyle landed neatly on the rocks beside them. “Ah, ze poor thing,” Brigitte said. “What harm did she do anyone? Who is this monster who stole her life?”

  “Let’s find out,” Donovan said in a low voice. “Brigitte, we’re being watched. Can you find him?”

  “He shall not hide from me.” Brigitte crouched, and sprang into the air.

  Something gleamed white at the corner of Riga’s eyes and she angled her flashlight. A symbol had been chalked on the rocks. She dug her phone from her pocket. “Donovan, would you shine your light over here? I want to get a picture of this.”

  She snapped a close-up.

  “There’s another,” Donovan said.

  They found five in all, roughly equidistant from the body, as well as traces of melted wax and ferns. Riga hesitated, then forwarded the pictures to her aunts, Peregrine and Dot. Experienced necromancers, they might have some insight into the symbols.

  The lights in the house above them switched on, lighting the rocks. They looked up, startled.

  “Let’s go.” Donovan took her elbow. “I don’t think we need the police to find us here.”

  He stayed by her side as they hurried back, Riga scanning the night sky for the gargoyle. Donovan helped her up the small hill to the parking lot. She didn’t relax until they were back on the highway.

  “He was there, Donovan, watching us.”

  “I know. And now he knows we’re onto him. We can flush him out, if Brigitte hasn’t already.”

  The phone in her pocket vibrated, and she dug it out.

  A message from her aunt Peregrine: “U?”

  Riga picked her way across the tiny keyboard: “NO.”

  Peregrine: “Nasty. AVOID.”

  Riga: “Can’t. Tell me more?”

  Peregrine: “Avoid AT ALL COSTS.”

  Riga: “URGENT.”

  No reply.

  Riga made a sound of disgust and jammed the phone in her purse. “I hate texting.”

  “Why don’t you just call her?”

  “Because then I’d have to talk to her.”

  Donovan grunted.

  Disquieted, Riga searched the sky, and tugged her jacket more firmly into place. Where was Brigitte?

  “Did she tell you anything about the symbols?” he asked.

  “Just that they’re trouble,” she said. “Hopefully, Peregrine will send on some more detailed information later.”

  “Do the symbols tell you anything?”

  “I wish I could profile spell casters the way the FBI profiles serial killers. Theoretically, the way he’s configured this spell might give me a better sense of what we’re dealing with. But in reality, I’m just taking the pictures to be thorough. Maybe Brigitte or one of my aunts will see something.” Riga leaned forward, craning her neck, head almost pressed to the windshield. “Brigitte should have been back by now.”

  “You’re not worried about her, are you?”

  “Of course not.” She tied her hair in a knot, but strands whipped from it, snapping her cheeks. “Brigitte can handle herself. She’s probably following our watcher back to his lair.”

  Wind buffeted the small sports car.

  “Lair?” he asked.

  “It’s a good word,” she said defensively.

  “It’s an excellent word. Why don’t we have a lair?”

  They rounded a bend in the road, the beams of the Ferrari spotlighting palms. Abruptly, the trees flattened. The wind rose to a scream. The car swerved as if struck, its front tires lifting. It dropped hard, and Riga was wrenched forward, gravity tugging at her stomach.

  “Hold on.” Donovan corrected course. The wind fell, and they rolled to a stop on the side of the highway.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Riga released her grip on the door handle, swallowed. “Yeah. Were we… airborne?”

  Donovan grinned. “I’ve never flown a Ferrari before.” He sobered. “I’d better check the car.” He jumped out, walked around the bumper, examining it with his flashlight.

  She exited more slowly, letting her heart rate return to normal. “Any damage?”

  “Not that I can see. You feel anything?”

  She cast about. Magic tingled at the edges of her awareness, and faded to nothing. “Past magic.”

  “Hm. No surprise. That wind wasn’t normal. But if it was an attack on us, it was badly timed. This is a nice, flat stretch of road. Why not wait for a windy cliff-side, where he could do some real damage?”

  Her stomach churned. “Unless the attack was meant for Brigitte.”

  “Can you contact her?”

  “I can call for her, but it’s like sending up a bat signal. She’ll know she’s wanted but not why. And if she is in the middle of tracking, I don’t want to call her off. If she’s been disabled by that spell, my call won’t help.”

  “Doesn’t it work the other way?”

  “She can’t call me.”

  “But you’re connected to each other. There must be a way for
you to find her.”

  “I’d need supplies…” Her lips puckered, and she hissed an indrawn breath. But she had supplies. She dove into the car and rummaged through her bag, pulling out her mint tin. “I knew this was a good idea.”

  He leaned over the car door. “Breath mints?”

  She opened the tin, exposing a white tea candle, a rolled scrap of paper, a tiny bottle of oil, matches. In the top of the tin, she’d affixed a drawing by her niece, Pen, representing the four elements. “Mini altar kit. Waterproof, fortunately. This will help me focus, though it would be better if we had something that belonged to her.” Better still if they had a piece of Brigitte, but unlike other familiars, Brigitte wasn’t in the habit of shedding fur or feathers.

  “She lent me a book before we left. I’ve been carrying it around with me.” He went to the other side of the car and dug behind the seat, pulled out a scarred paperback. “Will this do?”

  Riga took it from him. “Tami Hoag – this is one of her favorites.” She smiled. “Brigitte must like you.”

  He cocked a brow. “What’s not to like?”

  Her movements quick, jerky, she drew a circle and pentagram in the soft dirt along the roadside, sheltered from view by the car. She emptied out the tin and set the candle in the center of the drawing on the tin lid, placed the book in the center of the circle. Riga sat down beside it and lit the candle. A Jeep blasted past, and the tiny flame flickered.

  She closed her eyes and centered, empowered the circle with the in-between. After her earlier spell, it seemed to come more easily to her now.

  Riga chanted. It was a simple rhyme, but at the last minute she altered it, calling to the four elements. Here in Kauai, where the elements seemed closer somehow, it just seemed right. She held the book over the candle flame, envisioned the smoke and heat curling about it, imprinting on its essence, and then rising into the air to find its owner. She thought of Brigitte, of the gargoyle crouching, springing, impossibly light, into the air, her stone-feathered wings spread wide. No, Riga didn’t need to bleed to make magic.

  Brigitte, where are you?

  She called the elements, imagined them flowing from earth and air and water and fire through her. With a breath, she sent them racing outward in search of Brigitte, following the trail the book had lain.

  Her vision fragmented. It wasn’t happening. She wasn’t connecting. The spell was failing. Had failed. Riga raked her hands through her hair, cold spreading through her belly. Something had happened to her familiar, her friend, and dammit, she didn’t have time for a systems failure.

  “May I borrow your knife?” she asked.

  Frowning, Donovan unlatched the knife from his belt, snicked it open, and handed it to her, handle first. He edged away from the circle, his expression unreadable.

  She took the knife and pressed it into the pad of her finger. A droplet of blood oozed out and she squeezed it into the pool of melted wax.

  A sigh in the wind. From the corner of her eye, Riga caught the flutter of a Hawaiian shirt, the menehune turning his back on her.

  Power surged through her, hot, enticing. Images flashed. Brigitte, tumbling through the sky. The gargoyle staggered on a rock wall, one wing dragging behind her.

  Riga’s nails bit into her palms. Which rocks? Where was she?

  Twin waterfalls. A river winding below, through a verdant valley. And stones, stones, sacred stones covered in snow, sacred to a goddess.

  Swaying, Riga blew out the candle. She packed up her miniature altar kit, dropped the candle, fumbled with the oil. The world was spinning, and she gripped her head to steady it. “Wow.”

  “Did you see anything? Where is she?”

  “Who?” she asked. Donovan was frowning at her. Even mad he was cute. Warmth radiated throughout her body.

  “Brigitte.”

  “Oh.” God, she hadn’t felt this good in ages. The world felt fuzzy around the edges, and she liked it.

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s at some heiau to a snow goddess, on a hillside.” Her words slurred. She swallowed, spoke slowly, with the dignity of a drunk. Brigitte. They had to find Brigitte. She was in trouble. “There’s a waterfall nearby. The guide book is in my bag.”

  Donovan stared at her, his lips compressed into a thin line, then went to her bag, found the guidebook, flipped to the index. “Here. The Poliahu Heiau by Opaeka’a Falls. It’s not far from here.”

  He jumped into the car and waited while she fumbled her seatbelt, then they roared down the highway. Donovan leaned forward, reaching between his legs, and pulled a first aid kit from beneath his seat. “Here. There may be some disinfectant inside for your finger. I’m not sure how clean that knife was.”

  She laughed shakily. “Now you tell me.” Her stomach twisted, heaved, and she clamped her lips shut.

  They crossed a river. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Go left here.” Riga’s head was clearing, thanks to the pounding of a ferocious headache. “It’s only a few miles in, according to the book.”

  He made a hard turn, pressing Riga against the door. “I ask because your pupils are dilated and you’re slurring your words.”

  “Still?”

  “No,” he admitted. “The slurring stopped two turns ago.”

  “The spell affected me, but I’m feeling steadier now.”

  “It’s not right for you, Riga. Using blood.”

  There hadn’t been a choice. But something niggled at her. She wanted more. “I needed to do it.” But she wondered, and looked away.

  Donovan didn’t respond.

  They drove inland, up a windy road, and soon he slowed the car, looking for the site. “If we reach the waterfall, we’ve gone too far,” he said.

  Their headlights struck a metal historical marker sign – a white-robed King Kamehameha wearing a sweeping headdress.

  “There,” Riga said.

  Donovan pulled into the dirt parking lot, illuminating cropped, browning grass, stunted palms, and a low, lava stone wall with raised ground, wild grasses behind it.

  “See her?” he asked.

  The car bumped to a halt. The moon emerged from the clouds, and the river below turned silver, an eel writhing through the dark valley.

  “No,” she said, “but this was definitely the spot.” She flicked on her flashlight and got out of the car. A sense of despair washed over her. She shouted. “Brigitte?”

  No answer.

  A chill swept through Riga, and she turned up the collar of her jacket.

  Donovan came to stand beside her, and nodded to the right. “This way.”

  “We’ll go quicker if we split up.”

  He scratched the faint scar on his jaw with his thumb. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “I am,” she said. “Really.” The lightheadedness and nausea were almost completely gone. The headache remained. But she deserved that.

  “Then you take left. I’ll take right.”

  She walked beside the wall of the heiau, her shoulders stooped, swinging her flashlight. The metal felt slippery in her hands. Scalp prickling, she stopped, turned to look behind her. “Donovan?” she shouted.

  “I’m here! You find her?”

  “No.” Feeling foolish, she continued along the uneven wall.

  Footfalls pattered past, and she started, her flesh pebbling. Swept the beam. Red dirt, a stone dislodged from the wall, a palm, its shadow long, spiky.

  A child’s giggle. Menehunes were here. Damn it.

  She swung in a circle. “Brigitte!”

  Light footsteps, dozens, running in the opposite direction. She spun toward the sound.

  “Brigitte!” She cursed. Forget the child-like footsteps. They were just menehunes. Little people. Happy, harmless little people. (Fae that scared the hell out of her). Brigitte was here, and they were a distraction.

  Blowing out her breath, she turned her back on a giggle and strode toward the end of the clearing and a tangled kukui tree, it
s moonlit leaves silvery spearheads.

  Donovan’s voice echoed. “Brigitte?”

  Her sandaled feet crunched over loose dirt and stone.

  A car drove past on the highway, slowed, and sped onward.

  Something squeaked, low and rhythmic. The cone of light from Riga’s flashlight arced back and forth, a miniature lighthouse, across the dirt and grass. The squeaking grew louder.

  A breeze kicked up, rustling the leaves, and Riga tightened the belt on her safari jacket.

  The branches of the kukui tree creaked. The squeaking was louder here, and faster. She shined her light in the branches, thick with leaves.

  No Brigitte.

  She moved on, and the squeak was behind her. Slowly, she turned, walked beneath the tree. What the hell was that sound? It was like something hanging. A dead man.

  She turned the beam of her flashlight upward, dreading what she’d find. Something gray and shaped like a teardrop hung from the tree. It reminded her of a giant insect pod she’d seen once in Thailand, and she recoiled.

  Something shifted beneath the gray matting, and she stifled a yelp, her heart clenching.

  An eye – dark, stony – glared from the pod.

  “Brigitte!” She put her hand to her chest, willing the thundering to ease. “How did you…?” She stepped closer, squinting. The gargoyle had been wrapped in ti-leaves and tied with vines, enveloped in a neat ball.

  “Donovan! I found her! Over here!” She turned to Brigitte: “It’s okay. We’ll get you down.” Her light followed the trail of the vine that suspended the gargoyle. It had been hung over a main branch and then looped and tied off around a lower branch, just out of Riga’s reach, but not out of Donovan’s.

  Nice. He should be able to lower Brigitte to the ground without dropping the gargoyle. She studied the knot, shook her head. They’d need a knife to get that undone before daybreak. Donovan’s blade was getting a workout on this vacation.

  She started in his direction, thinking to find him, and the beam from her light mirrored back at her.

  Riga halted, baffled. Slowly, she walked forward, the reflected light growing larger, flatter. She reached out her hand, fingertips tingling, and felt something solid, unyielding. Anxiety pressing her chest, she pushed harder, felt with both hands, stepping sideways, circling. A barrier. It wrapped around the tree. They were trapped.