TO CHARM
A KILLER
A Hollystone Mystery
WL HAWKIN
To Charm a Killer
Copyright © 2016 WL Hawkin
All rights reserved
Published by Blue Haven Press.
Second Edition
ISBN 978-0-9950184-3-3
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. This is a work of fiction. Resemblances to persons living or dead are unintended and purely co-incidental.
Cover Design—Joanna Joseph/Typeset in Humana Cerif, Luminari and Garamond
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Hawkin, W. L., author
To Charm a Killer / W.L. Hawkin.
(Hollystone mysteries ; 1)
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-0-9950184-1-9 (paperback).--ISBN 978-0-9950184-2-6 (epub).--
ISBN 978-0-9950184-3-3 (kindle)
I. Title.
PS8615.A8175T6 2016 C813'.6 C2016-907232-0
C2016-907233-9
To Tara.
Thank you for Ireland,
And for sharing this journey with me.
CONTENTS
Prologue: Through the Eyes of a Killer
1: Nothing is but What is Not
2: Peace, the Charm’s Wound Up
3: Thrice to Thine, and Thrice to Mine
4: Fair is Foul and Foul is Fair
5: Daggers in Men’s Smiles
6: Restless Ecstasy
7: Hecate
8: Night’s Black Agents
9: All Causes Shall Give Way
10: Stones Have Been Known To Move
11: Your Spirits Shine Through You
12: Wild Imaginings
13: As Breath Into the Wind
14: I Am a Man Again
15: Full of Scorpions is My Mind
16: A Deed of Dreadful Note
17: That Tears Shall Drown the Wind
Epilogue: Let Me Enfold Thee
Acknowledgements
Author Bio
Prologue: Through the Eyes of a Killer
I CAME TO THE CLUB THAT NIGHT to meet a witch named Jade, but left wanting something else—something I never wanted before.
She arrived at midnight, her long dark hair flying wild about her face, and I flashed the sign: the blood red pentacle etched on my forearm. It was Friday and the club was packed, but she acknowledged me; appraising me as a woman might a potential purchase. I didn’t like it—no man likes teetering on the edge of rejection, whatever his agenda—but endured it. Satisfied, she moistened her scarlet lips and grinned, then shimmied wide-eyed into the fray, bedazzled—as I knew she would be—by the power of the gothic nightclub, the blazing constellations in the darkling canopy, and the musky sweat of gyrating dancers.
Squeezing in at the bar like a shiny black beetle, she ordered a shot. Bodies swayed, inhaling her pheromones. I’d chosen well on both counts. Club Pegasus, tucked into a trendy notch of Vancouver, was a voyeur’s paradise. And Jade, in leather to her thighs and little else, drew their gaze. It must be primal instinct that drives humans yearning for unholy exploits, to swathe their bodies in the skins of animals.
When a server in fishnet sashayed by, I touched her arm and discretely ordered another non-alcoholic drink. Glancing back, I watched Jade swivel on the stool like a child on a carnival ride. I wondered how long she would play this game—thinking she was making me wait for her. Naïve and narcissistic; she was perfect.
Then, Michael Stryker floated by in a shadowy sea of silk and set my mind adrift. The legendary Stryker—self-christened Mandragora—was reputed to host orgies that could rival Caligula, and be tied to organized crime through his grandfather, who was the real money behind the club. Angular and tantalizing, with a libertine charm, Stryker’s straight honey blond hair was parted in the centre and fell below his shoulders; a fitting frame for the hollow cheeks, painted lips, and black-lined eyes. He wore the look of a bygone era and he wore it exceedingly well. When in full vampire persona, as he was tonight, he wore fangs and red contacts. Too bad he was a fraud. A man like that—
“Do you think he’s hot?” A pale ginger punk hovered, balancing a martini glass between his freckled fingers. “He thinks he’s the reincarnation of Lord Byron. I think he’s an ass.”
“Who gives a fuck what you think?”
“No need for brutality—”
“Beat it,” I said, and turned my back on him. I wanted no memorable moments this night, no tags, and no complications.
Sensing the punk’s disappearance, I glanced back to see Stryker sweep Jade’s hair to one side and flash his fangs across her neck. Startled by his crimson contacts, she flinched. To pacify her, he brushed her lips with the tip of his index finger, and when she acquiesced, slid it in her mouth.
Bitch. I had not spent hours chatting her up on the Wicca site only to lose her to him. I considered charging over to the bar to remind her why she had come to this club and who had given her the password. But I couldn’t do that. I could, however, take advantage of this scenario.
After turning Jade to face the dance floor, Stryker pressed in close behind her; one hand curled around her neck, while the other played her belly like a cello. Discerning his discrete cue, a slave-boy appeared with a tray of cherry red shots that Stryker, it was rumoured, called blood clots and randomly laced with ecstasy. They each took one, clinked glasses, and downed the potion.
Feeling my eyes on her, she smiled coyly. “Come here,” she mouthed. “Join us.” While I considered this invitation and where it might lead, Stryker led her to the heart of the throbbing room.
I was about to intervene, when an intruder wearing sweats and a ball cap appeared—running straight for Jade, his threat reverberated over the beats. “I’ll kill you, bitch.”
A bouncer jumped him, but spiking on adrenaline, the man shook himself free. Then a second bouncer appeared, hooked his arm around his neck and squeezed. The body crumpled and hit the floor. As they dragged it out by the armpits, the crowd cheered like Romans.
Stryker crushed Jade’s face into his shoulder and stroked her hair. Was she crying? Telling secrets? Apologizing? She claimed to be single and available. Was that a lie? I hated that women were liars.
Then, a sudden flash of fire from the stage illuminated him. A gentleman in tuxedo and burgundy silk cape, he hovered between two flaming torches. His raven hair, slicked back in a French braid, hung halfway down his back. Chiselled cheekbones and charcoaled eyes, his mouth was thick and perfect, the top lip heart-shaped. Leaping off the stage, the magician landed in a fiery flourish and bowed to the applause; then cruised the dance floor, laughing, and tossing flames from hand to hand as effortlessly as apples.
I knew his face. His photograph graced the glassed marquee outside the entrance. Though stunning, it had never affected me like seeing him did now, in the flesh.
I spoke his name. “Estrada.”
He turned, and our eyes met through a sea of bodies. When he walked toward me, I spilled my drink. Tried to turn away, and couldn’t.
It was Stryker who broke the spell. Sliding his hand under the magician’s cape, he clutched his hip and drew him in. Clinging to the vampire’s arm, Jade watched the fire swirl around her, until at last, Estrada tossed it high into the air and it vanished. As the music intensified, the crowd swarmed, and amidst the sweating bodies, I lost sight of them.
Slipping out past the gate into the September street, I found the broken jock, still
unconscious and slouched against the brick wall beneath the magician’s marquee.
I stood staring at the image. It could have been a cover shot for GQ. Posing in a white tuxedo with tails, a burgundy orchid in the lapel, his loose hair caught the wind and flew back in a mass of waves. The deep brown irises of his kohl-edged eyes had been photoshopped to a piercing gold, and in a strange language those perfect lips uttered a private invitation.
“Estrada,” I whispered. “I accept.” What else could I do?
1: Nothing is but What is Not
“IT SMELLS PRIMAL IN HERE.” Estrada took a deep breath and winked at Sensara, who stood staring at him from across the path. “Kinda turns me on.”
“A dust bunny turns you on.” With no makeup and her sleek black hair caught up in a high ponytail, she looked about sixteen; though she was a decade beyond that.
“I’m serious, Sara. This forest reeks of life, especially after the September rains. Can’t you smell it?” He loved the primordial odour of wet earth; imagined his beginnings in the first fecund ooze…a microscopic amoebic creature, not yet conscious of the magical transformation that would one day occur.
“You reek of life.” She rolled her dark almond eyes and shot him a look he didn’t comprehend. They were best friends, yet Sensara put up such a front, he could rarely read her; something he considered unfair given her psychic prowess. The high priestess of Hollystone Coven, Sensara Narato’s reputation was legendary in New Age circles. The police even employed her occasionally, despite her connection to Wicca; something that irked him, as he neither liked nor trusted cops. “No, wait—” She sniffed the air like a rabbit. “It’s not life, it’s cinnamon.”
“But cinnamon is life. Who can live without it? It’s as essential as fire, air, earth, and water.”
“Ah, of course. Cinnamon. The fifth element.”
Sensing her sudden shiver, he offered his jacket. She shook her head.
“Catch a chill when you were out with Bud last night?”
“His name is Bert.”
“Right, Bert. The accountant.”
The punch to his arm was so swift he lost his balance. Teetering, he caught himself before his heavy backpack dragged him over. They were on their way to celebrate the Autumn Equinox with the others, and it was loaded with squash, apples, and bottles of wine. When he righted himself and stopped laughing, he found her standing in front of him with her hands on her hips, a raging anime heroine.
“Bertram Bellows is a motivational speaker. People pay two-fifty a day to attend his workshops and he packs them in. He’s not throwing fireballs around some sleazy nightclub downtown.”
With pursed lips, he cocked his head and considered this last insult. He was not sure what she detested more: his gig as a magician in a Vancouver goth club or his relationship with the manager. He suspected the latter.
“Have you slept with him yet?” he asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Old Bert can’t be too motivating if you’ve been going out with him for two months and he still ain’t got you naked.”
“We’re building a spiritual relationship.”
“So are we, but I could get you naked in a minute, if you’d let me.”
For a moment, neither of them moved, and then he winked, and she flung her latté.
“Jesus, Sara.” He ripped off his scarf and wiped his face and hair. Luckily, most of it had missed his leather jacket. “If the mention of sex makes you crazy, you need a good—”
“That’s not it.” Another shiver. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arm. “I don’t know what it is.”
If only she would trust him. Unable to bear seeing her look so defeated, he narrowed his dark eyes wickedly and knelt before her. Then, with a flick of his left wrist, he produced a perfect pink buttonhole rose. “I apologize for my crude intrusion into your private life, and I mean that Sensara.”
“Yeah, yeah, Sir Lancelot.” She tucked the rose behind her ear and smiled. “We should go. They’ll be waiting.”
Mesmerized by the forest, for a while he walked in silence. There was no death in this Pacific woodland; only transformation as the dying nourished the living. Miniature ferns sprouted from crooks and hollows of disjointed upper limbs. Mushroom colonies hovered in crevasses; thin stalks twisting like snakes as they competed for space, their rusty caps perfect circles.
Cocking his head like a raven, he flung back the long dark locks that tumbled across his eyes. “I love these shaggy tree folks.” He touched the soft hairy mosses that draped in fractured folds from the decaying tree limbs. Hearing no objection, he rambled on. “This forest could be Fanghorn. Maybe we could conjure up our own Treebeard. Befriend an Ent. Can you imagine all these trees ripping up their roots and marching off like Birnam Wood to Dunsinane, only true Canadian pines, rustling and dragging their—”
Sensara gasped and hugged her chest.
“What?” he whispered.
“Another—”
“Shiver? That’s three. What is it?”
“I don’t know, but I feel sick. Something’s wrong.”
Grounding himself, he shot imaginary roots from the soles of his feet deep into the earth’s crust. If there was one thing he trusted, it was Sensara’s radar. “We’re almost there. Come on. We’ll cast the circle.”
At the signal tree, they veered off a grass-flecked game trail between massive ferns. Buntzen Lake simmered below, a smoky emerald in the growing dusk. Ancient granite mountains encircled the water; their snow-tipped spires still harbouring scattered traces of last winter’s storms. Pine spikes jutted like slivers from the distant peaks, split only by immense mottled rock that gaped through the trees—faces of mountain spirits and Old World giants.
When she shivered again, the energy shot through the air and up his arm like a jolt of lightning. “Jesus. I felt that.”
“Something’s coming, Estrada. I don’t know what it is or how to stop it—but unless we do, people will die.”
≈
“Dad? What are you doing?” Maggie stepped toward her father.
John Taylor stood before the fireplace holding her mother’s Waterford crystal clock in his hands. A wedding gift, it was the only treasure Shannon owned and no one touched it. Alleged to be a family heirloom—though Maggie had never seen or heard of this family—it had been carved by Irish artisans and filigreed in real gold. It possessed an unspeakable secret. The steady ticking of its precise hands contrasted with the chaotic crackling of the fire in the great stone hearth. Maggie wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. It was an unusually warm September afternoon in southern British Columbia and the living room was as hot as hell.
“Dad,” she said, slowly. “Give me the clock.”
She wondered where Bastian was. He usually stayed until five on weekdays so that she, or her mother, would be home before he left. If her father had found time to light a fire, Bastian had been gone for quite some time. Perhaps he’d left before giving John his afternoon meds. That would explain his current state.
“Come and see the fire through the glass. Look Mags. The flames are dancing.”
She was close enough now to see the second hand as it crept past each golden Roman numeral…close enough to take it.
“You’re too close to the fire, Dad.” His hands were pink and shiny like giant baby paws. “Let me hold it.” Her gaze travelled from the leaden crystal clock in his slick hands to the chiselled stone at his feet—stone he had lovingly laid in the time before. “Dad?” She reached for it.
“Ahhhh!” Lurching back, he let go.
She flinched at the clink of the kitchen door behind her, and then the crash of crystal on rock crammed her ears as the clock shattered into a pile of rubble at her feet. Beneath the wild pounding of her heart, she could hear it faintly ticking, still barely alive.
“What have you done?” cried Shannon. Feeling her mother at her back, Maggie imagined her growing huge and filling the doorway, a
gaping Medusa, snakes flying madly round her head.
She knelt among the shards and stared down, unable to face either of her parents. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
“How could you, Margaret Mary? You know what that clock means to me.”
She thought of her father and why he was the way he was. “It was an accident. I was dusting…it slipped.”
“Clumsy eejit,” Shannon said, her cloaked Irish accent escaping through her anger. “Can’t you do anything right?”
Maggie bent her head to protect her throat from the piercing words. Pushing against one of the shards with her finger, she sliced the skin and watched the blood spill out on the stone in ruby beads of liquid rage. Feeling relief, she pushed and sliced again.
“Why on earth did you light a fire? It’s roasting in here.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, who did? Bastian had to leave early, and we both know that he wouldn’t start a fire and then leave.”
“Bastian left early?”
“He said he’d leave you a note. Didn’t you see it?”
That was a loaded question. She’d stayed for gymnastic practice after school instead of coming straight home as instructed. Bastian expected her home early and she assumed that he would stay until she arrived. She glanced at the fire. John had likely used the note for tinder.
“Why did he leave early?”
“Family emergency. Had to catch a plane. Speaking of which, your passport just arrived.” She waved it in the air. “I was considering letting you go on that trip abroad. Well, forget it. That accident just cost you the price of a ticket.”
“Mom, please. That’s not fair.” The ten-day trip to the UK and Ireland was scheduled for spring break and all her friends were going. “It’s for grad, and I’ve never travelled anywhere.”
Shannon shook her head. “Clean up this mess. I never want to see that bloody thing again.”
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 1