5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  She snarled in frustration.

  Above her, Brigitte growled low, like an angry cat. The gargoyle spun slowly, her visible eye accusing.

  “I’ll figure this out,” Riga snapped. “Just give me a second.”

  She’d been an idiot. Brigitte had been the bait, and she’d walked right into the snare. And Donovan was outside it. Was that intentional? Meant to divide and conquer? Or an accident that would work in their favor?

  She walked around the tree again, hands gliding over the barrier, probing for a weak spot. There was none.

  Riga pressed a palm to her brow. Think, think, think. Anything could be happening outside the barrier. She thought of Donovan, hurt, or... Her heart clenched. No, don’t think of that. Think of how to get out of here. First – what the hell was this invisible wall?

  Riga blew out her breath, extended her vision.

  That strange web of light sprang into being, a burst of color netted by gold, and she staggered, momentarily blinded. She lowered her lids, shielding her eyes through her lashes. She could see the barrier now, a shimmer of iridescence, sunlight on snow and hard as ice, surrounding the tree. And above it… The colors changed. So the barrier was a wall, not a dome. She blinked, returning to normal sight, and shined her flashlight above her. The branch Brigitte hung from extended over the barrier.

  “Ha!” She tucked the flashlight, still on, into the waistband of her shorts, and found the lowest tree branch. Riga scrabbled onto it, scraping her bare legs and dropping a sandal to the ground. Swearing, she kicked off the other sandal, climbing higher, to Brigitte’s branch. She wormed along it, the wood creaking beneath her.

  Brigitte made strangled sounds.

  “No, I’m not going to cut you free,” Riga said, inching past the gargoyle. “You’ll just drop to the ground. There’s a barrier around the tree, but the branch goes over it. I’ll get Donovan, and—”

  A crack split the night air.

  “Oh, shi—”

  The branch plummeted, and the ground rushed to meet her. Riga hit hard, elbows and knees jarring, and rolled to her back, the wind knocked from her.

  “Ow.”

  A light shined in her face. “Riga?” Donovan knelt beside her. He took in the branch, the thrashing gargoyle. “Did you try to get Brigitte down by yourself? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because the trap…” No, no, no, the barrier would just spring back into place now that he was here. “Get out! Get out!” She scrambled to her feet, grabbed his hand.

  He let her pull him away from the tree, his face creased with amusement. “We’re not making Brigitte happy.”

  “It was a trap. Ow.” A cold, knifelike pain stabbed her side and Riga bent, one hand pressed to her aching ribs. “When I stepped beneath the tree, a magical barrier came down. It blocked everything – light, sound. That’s probably why you didn’t hear me calling.”

  “Well, it’s not there now.” He strode inside and knelt beside Brigitte.

  “But…” Riga reached out a hand to him, let it drop to her side. If the trap snapped into place, at least one of them would be on the outside to release them.

  He cut the last vines free from the gargoyle with his knife. In the moonlight, the gargoyle seemed speckled, white and gray, as if lichen-covered.

  Feathers ruffling, Brigitte hopped outside the circle of the tree. Her head twisted back and forth. “Never! Never have I been so humiliated!” She let loose a string of French expletives.

  Slowly, Donovan followed, folding his knife, and Riga felt a flare of irritation. Why hadn’t the trap reset itself?

  “What happened, Brigitte?” Riga asked.

  “He discovered me and conjured a storm. I crashed here.”

  “He?” Riga said sharply.

  “I do not know. He, she, it, whatever it is has powerful skills. And my wing!” The gargoyle lifted her wing, and blinked. “My wing is fine.”

  “How did you get in the tree?”

  “Menehunes.” The gargoyle hissed. “I injured my wing when I crashed into that stone wall. I could not fly, and then they were upon me. Nasty, giggling little creatures. They trussed me up like ze Christmas goose. Riga, you must do something about them.”

  “But your wing looks fine now. Did they repair it?” Donovan played his light over the gargoyle’s back, revealing rows of tiny white handprints. “What the—?”

  Riga nudged him. The gargoyle was angry enough.

  “But you were following whoever did this,” Riga said. “What did you see? What kind of car did they have?”

  “Car?” Brigitte spat. “From my height – my safe height – I saw only two headlights in ze darkness, and so, bravely I swooped lower, because I knew it was ze first chance to learn ze identity of ze evil doer. And then he hit me with his spell.”

  “So you didn’t see anything,” Riga said flatly.

  “I was nearly killed! You have no idea ze trauma I have been through. Falling, and then ze nasty, little menehunes.”

  “Considering you crash-landed on a sacred site, I think we can count ourselves lucky,” Riga said.

  The gargoyle screeched, flapping her wings. “How was I to know where I was crashing? I was crashing! It… What is on my wings?” She craned her neck, rotating her body. “What have they done?”

  “Donovan, she was dangling like bait,” Riga said. “And when I went to her, the trap closed, and we were trapped. But it doesn’t make sense. What was the point?”

  He shrugged. “You told me the menehune are tricksters.”

  “Did anything happen out here while I was in there?” Riga motioned toward the tree, ignoring the gargoyle’s indignant squawks.

  “No. Just an old woman walking down the road. She stopped to ask what we were doing here, and so I told her, and then I went to look for you.”

  “You… What exactly did you tell her?”

  He rubbed his jawline with his knuckles. “Ah…” His lips parted, his face carved in horror. “Riga, I told her everything.”

  Chapter 17

  The moon slipped between two slivers of cloud, casting the uneven ground in a chiaroscuro of shadows and light. The wind rustled the tree branches, and they groaned in response.

  Riga stared at her husband. “What do you mean you told her everything?”

  “What have they done to my so beautiful stone feathers?” Brigitte wailed.

  “Everything.” Donovan ran a hand through his hair. “That the earthquake had been caused by a necromancer we were pursuing. That your familiar had crashed here, and we were searching for her. About the seals, the suspects. Everything. What the hell, Riga?”

  The gargoyle sat on the ground and scraped at the white handprints with one talon. “Bastards! Visigoths! Menehunes!”

  “It was magic,” Riga said, shaken. “It had to be. That’s why we were separated. What did the woman look like?”

  Donovan paced. “I can’t… It was like a dream. Talking to her made so much sense. And now it’s all slipping away. I remember she was old. And Hawaiian. But I couldn’t tell you what she was wearing or if she was fat or thin.”

  “Did anything stand out?”

  Brigitte howled, rolling in the dirt.

  “Not a damn thing.” He clenched his jaw. “And now whoever we’re following knows everything.”

  “If it was the necromancer, and he or she’s as badass as we think, why didn’t he try to take you out?” She rubbed her eyes, suddenly tired. “There have always been other players in this – the menehunes, the mermaids. We don’t know who that woman was.”

  He pursed his lips. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s no sense second guessing myself. Let’s get out of here. Brigitte, can you fly?”

  “I’ve been tagged! By faeries!”

  Donovan went to examine the damage. “It looks like some sort of powder. It should wash off.”

  Brigitte launched into the air and flew towards the black expanse of ocean.

  “Come on, Riga.” He tugged her towar
d the car, and she followed.

  But her limbs felt curiously heavy, her hands clammy. Depression washed over her.

  “Donovan, do you sense something here?”

  “It’s a lonely sort of place.”

  “What else do you know about this heiau?”

  He froze, and she stumbled to a halt behind him, her hand in Donovan’s tightening.

  A glowing, rectangular tower, narrowing at the top, now stood behind the rock wall of the heiau. Faintly translucent, the poles that made up its infrastructure were visible, as was the thing that swung inside it.

  Feet dragging, Riga walked toward it.

  “Riga,” Donovan said sharply.

  Something swinging, hypnotic… Her gaze followed the sickening arc of the body, hung upside down. Riga wanted to shut her eyes, to run, to make it go away, but horror rooted her to the spot. And the more she looked, the more detail she saw. Sagging flesh. Gaping eye sockets.

  The rotting corpse was just a ghost, a memory. She swallowed, and the movement, slight as it was, affirmed she still had power over her body. Riga shuddered. Yes, she could move. “You’re right,” she said. “We should go.”

  Glowing figures rose from beneath the tower, streamed out of it. Riga took an involuntary step back, but the marchers ignored them, and walked down the hill, towards the ocean.

  Riga and Donovan returned to the Ferrari, and he drove slowly down the winding road.

  “You asked what else I knew about this heiau,” he said. “I read about this place in our guidebook. They believe it was once used for human sacrifice, after the Tahitians arrived.”

  “That’s what the little man told me, that sacrifice had come to these islands before.” She thought of the hanging man, dangling by his ankles, the sacrifice. Necromancy was old here.

  They made it their own. The thought echoed like laughter in her head. She pressed her knees together and rubbed her mouth, feeling sick.

  He frowned. “Dark things may have happened here once, but the old woman who appeared to me – she seemed benevolent. Was I fooled by a spell?”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “There are stories of the local goddesses appearing on the road as old women. If you’re respectful to them, they respond in kind.”

  He shot her an amused glance. “I thought you didn’t believe in gods and goddesses.”

  “I don’t. They’re just archetypes brought into being by human consciousness or some other form of consciousness, reappearing over and over in different forms. The trickster god, Maui, isn’t so different from Hermes or Loki.”

  “Mm. Still looking for that grand unifying theory of magic, are you?”

  “Everyone needs a hobby. Besides, if I can crack it, I may have that magical system I’ve been looking for.” Something fully her own, that had nothing to do with death and blood and necromancy. She tightened her jacket around her like a shield.

  “Are you any closer?”

  She re-tied her hair, whipping in the wind. “No. But I have to say, Hawaiian magic seems an interesting synthesis.” The need to sleep beat at her. The clock on the dashboard read two thirty, A.M. “If I could figure it out…” She might not need necromancy. The image of the gently swaying corpse appeared before her, and she closed her eyes. She wouldn’t make necromancy her own. She would find a different path to the in-between.

  “Why is it that we’re always looking for unifying theories? Why can’t there be more than one answer? What about chaos? What about nature?”

  She closed her eyes, smiling, and rested her head against the seat. “That’s your bailiwick.” Her brain caught a spark, struggled toward it, and she fell asleep.

  Riga woke as they pulled into the hotel driveway, and she sat up with a start. “Sorry.” She yawned. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Not at all. And you’re adorable when you snore.”

  She frowned. If he could hear her over the roar of the Ferrari’s engine, there was nothing adorable about her snoring.

  “I was joking,” he said. “You weren’t snoring.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  He snickered. “This time.”

  In their bungalow, they tumbled into bed and fell asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing.

  *****

  When Riga awoke, sunbeams slanted along the bamboo floor. Donovan was gone, a note left on his pillow that he was at the business center.

  Brigitte perched on the dresser.

  “I see the handprints washed off,” Riga said.

  “Those menehunes are lucky they did.” Her eyes narrowed. “They do not want me for an enemy. Where is the remote?”

  Riga rolled out of bed. “It’s in the drawer beneath you.” She stumbled to the bathroom, showered, and changed into a crisp, cotton blouse and wide-legged slacks. Fiddling with her collar, she exited the bathroom and walked through the ghost, dripping in her bathing suit.

  “Gagh!” Riga shivered.

  The ghost flit sideways, and disappeared through a wall.

  “Dammit.” It was the first time she’d seen the ghost in here. Had this once been the ghost’s bungalow? Were her habits changing? Or had she come to Riga on purpose?

  “Did you notice the ghost earlier?” Riga asked the gargoyle.

  “Forget ze ghost. We have more important business to discuss. What is our next step?”

  The door opened, and Donovan walked in. He drew Riga to him and pressed her against the wall, kissing her. His broad hands drifted to her hips.

  “Mm.” His voice was a rumble against her neck. “We have some unfinished business.”

  “That is what I told her,” Brigitte said.

  He jerked away from Riga, releasing her. “Good morning, Brigitte,” he said heartily. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Riga was just about to tell me about our plans for ze day.”

  He cocked a brow. “Were you? I’d like to hear them.”

  “We should talk to Kimo again,” Riga said. Hero, villain, or bit-player, Kimo was a part of this story. “He knew something, and his friend’s death might shake it loose. And we should circle back to Townsend at the Protection Society. He was the one who put us onto Kimo. There’s likely more he’s not telling us.”

  “What about me?” Brigitte asked.

  “We need to know more about Hawaiian magic. Can you do some research?”

  “Why Hawaiian? You should be studying necromancy. Are you avoiding it again? You know you cannot do Hawaiian magic. And furthermore—”

  “Hawaiian magic, Brigitte.” She grabbed her bag and gave Donovan a get-me-outta-here look.

  He clasped Riga’s hand and tugged her out the door. “Don’t work too hard,” he said over his shoulder.

  The door closed behind them. “Alone at last.” He nuzzled her ear.

  The pool man walked past, net over his shoulder.

  “Relatively alone,” Donovan amended.

  *****

  They drove down the coast, catching the morning traffic in Lihue before escaping onward to Kimo’s restaurant in Poipu. They turned down the narrow, rutted road to the rocky shore, Riga’s shoulder lurching against the door when they hit a pothole. Donovan winced and pulled into a spot beneath a palm tree. Kimo’s boat bumped against the deserted dock. They walked up the steps to the crooked shack.

  Riga inhaled, smelling breakfast, remembering she hadn’t eaten. Her stomach rumbled.

  Donovan laughed. “Since we’re here, we may as well eat.”

  A smiling waitress escorted them to a booth, and Riga slid across the torn Naugahyde cushion. She handed them plastic menus, and they ordered orange juice.

  Behind the counter, Kimo peered at them through a window to the kitchen, scowling. Half a dozen men, their skin roughened by sun and sea, sat on a row of barstools. They followed his gaze, and stared at Riga and Donovan.

  “Kimo’s friends?” Riga asked under her breath.

  “They do look familiar.” Donovan looked over the menu. “He’s got your favorite, m
acadamia nut pancakes.”

  She closed the menu, and Kimo ambled toward them, wiping his hands on the stained apron that sagged about his narrow hips.

  Donovan stood. “Hello, Kimo. We hoped to find you.”

  Kimo’s gaze darted between the two. A crumb of bread was snagged in his moustache. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s about your friend, Mana,” Donovan said.

  “What about him?”

  “Maybe you should sit down,” Donovan said. “It’s bad news.”

  “What kind of bad news?”

  “Mana is dead,” Donovan said.

  “Dead?” Kimo paled. “What do you mean, dead? He’s not dead. I saw him yesterday.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riga said. “It happened in the parking lot overlooking the lighthouse.”

  His brown eyes looked dazed. “Was he hit by a car?”

  “Sharks’ teeth. He vomited them.” Riga gestured toward the space beside her. “Please, sit down.”

  “Shark…” Kimo placed a hand on the table. “How?”

  Riga scooted, and Kimo sat beside her. “We think someone put them inside Mana,” she said. “That it was murder.”

  “But… how?” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you two telling me this? Why not the police?”

  “The police seem to think he swallowed the teeth himself,” Riga said. “Pica disorder.”

  “That’s stupid. Why the fuck would Mana do that?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Riga said. “He asked us to meet him. He said he had information about Dennis’s murder.”

  Kimo’s face clouded. “He couldn’t.”

  “Did Mana live alone?” Riga asked.

  “No. He has a girl. Shit. I wonder if she knows?”

  Riga rolled a butter knife between her fingers. “Where does she live?”

  He gave them an address.

  “How well did Mana know Dennis?” Donovan asked.

  “Dennis was around a lot. They joked together, but they didn’t know each other – not well. At least, I didn’t think so.”

  The waitress returned with their orange juice, and Kimo waved her off.

  “Dennis was more than just a family friend, wasn’t he?” Donovan asked.