“Minor burn. I love to barbecue. It stimulates my biological urges.”
“Oh. You’re paleo.”
He nodded. The caveman diet was one of the latest fads. “I sure hope you’re not a vegan or one of those animal rights freaks.”
“No, I eat meat. As long as it’s, you know, organic.”
“I can tell you look after yourself.” Jones beamed, then raised his hand to his lips and kissed it. Struggling with repulsion, the man leaned in. “This coven you mentioned sounds fascinating. Any chance I can come to one of your gatherings?”
“Maybe.” Jones leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “There’s this new girl that wants to join. She’s just a kid really, but Dylan’s crushing on her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if she’ll get in. Estrada’s for anything that makes Dylan happy”—he rolled his eyes—“but Sensara’s playing the hard-ass, as usual, and she’s the boss. The bitch put me on probation for a year, if you can believe that.”
“Really? What do you people do? Go out in the woods and dance naked under the full moon?”
“Sometimes.”
He grinned, then leaned in close enough to brush Jones’s cheek with his own. “Tell me about this Estrada. You mentioned him before.”
“Now, there’s a man who thinks he’s all that.”
“Is he?”
Jones scoffed and pulled back. “I wouldn’t know.” He signalled the waiter for another martini. “He’s attractive in that bad boy sort of way. I’ll give him that. This week, he’s off playing Houdini on a cruise. Have you ever been to Pegasus, the goth club downtown?”
The man squinted curiously from beneath his tweed cap and leaned back in his chair. His disguise had worked. Jones didn’t recognize him from their brief encounter at the club.
“Estrada performs his magic show there every weekend when he’s in town. We could go—”
“It must be a decent act if he’s there all the time.”
“Well, he’s thick with the manager if you get my meaning.”
“Man or woman?”
“Michael Stryker.”
He remembered watching Stryker that night, the way he’d slipped his hand under the magician’s cape and drawn him in. “So, Estrada’s like us.”
“He’s like us and them. You should have seen him making out with Sensara at our last ceremony at Buntzen Lake. He nearly screwed her on the altar right in front of everyone.” Turning up one corner of his lip in disgust, Jones rolled his eyes. “It was nauseating.”
“Tell me something, Jem. If you can’t stand either of them, why are you in the coven?”
“Because they’re friggin great at what they do.”
“You mean they really cast spells and all that?”
“You bet. When they raise the power, shit happens. How do you think I got to be so successful?”
“Not because of magic?” Jones nodded. The man considered the implications of this. Just how powerful was this magician? The thought of danger made him somehow even more appealing, if that was possible. “Buntzen Lake? That’s out east of here, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. That girl, Maggie, the one that wants to join, she lives there. It’s wild country. There are bears and cougars and god knows what else.” As Jones shivered, the man pulled free his hand, leaned back, and crossed both arms over his chest.
A waiter appeared, smiled, and set another vodka martini down in front of Jones.
Rising from his chair, the man exploded in the waiter’s face. “Did you think I didn’t see that? I can’t believe you’re flirting with him right in front of me. Can’t you tell we’re on a date?”
“But, I didn’t mean—” The waiter backed up, holding the tray to shield himself from the assault.
“He didn’t—” echoed Jones.
The man ripped off his leather jacket and threw it over the back of the chair. Then, he turned on the waiter. “Let’s go, fucker.” He hit the waiter’s shoulder with the heel of his hand. “Outside. Now.”
“No. No. Please don’t.” Jones struggled to his feet and grabbed the waiter’s arm.
“Oh, how sweet. You don’t want me to hurt your boyfriend. That’s why you chose this place, isn’t it?” Before Jones could say anything more, he grabbed his jacket and turned to the waiter. “You can have him.” Even as he shoved wide the door, he could hear Jones’s pitiful denial. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything but Estrada.
This bitch Sensara—she was the one to watch. He nearly screwed her on the altar. And a young innocent girl wanting into the coven—what would she offer the magician to persuade the bitch to let her in? He bit his lip. The way to him was through them.
He couldn’t get Estrada out of his mind. He must have him. He would have him. Whatever it took.
≈
One week had passed with no word from Dylan. Maggie worried and fretted, then googled a love spell from the Internet. Friday night at midnight, when she was sure her parents were asleep, she took a small red Christmas taper and etched the words Dylan come to me three times into the wax. Then she lit the candle. She visualized Dylan knocking on the front door, then gazed into the flame until the candle melted into a small red puddle of her intentions. When it had cooled sufficiently, she carefully scraped up the remains, wrapped them in a piece of red cloth, and tied it with a small red ribbon. Fearing her mother might discover it on one of her snooping expeditions, she stuck it in a corner of her purse, and waited.
She heard the sound of Dylan’s footfalls as he sprinted up the porch steps on Sunday afternoon. Having just emerged from the shower, she stood wrapped in towels at the top of the stairs, in a state of momentary panic. Shannon was at work, but John was in the kitchen.
As she slipped into jeans and a soft black sweater, she thought about the spell. The witch had suggested a white candle for purity, but she had chosen a red candle hoping it would heat things up. Now she wondered if that had been a mistake. What if all Dylan wanted was sex? Could she control him like she controlled Damien?
She listened to the exchange from the top of the stairs where she stood brushing her damp hair.
“Who are you and what do you want?” John said, as he opened the front door. Jehovah’s Witnesses frequently suffered the same fate and returned undaunted. She wondered if Dylan had that kind of resolve.
“My name is Dylan McBride. I’m here to see Maggie.”
“How old are you?” She was surprised by John’s lucidity.
“Nineteen, sir.”
“Too old.”
When she heard the door slam, she dropped the hairbrush, and thundered down the steps two at a time.
Dylan thumped on the door. “Maggie! Are you there?”
“Look out Dad! You’re being ridiculous!” She shoved him out of the way and opened the door.
Red-faced and grinning, Dylan stood holding the biggest bouquet of pink roses she’d ever seen. “Maggie. I had to see you.”
“Well, come in,” she said, and then turned to her father. “Everything’s fine, Dad. Go watch one of your shows.” When she turned back, she was pleasant and in control again.
“These are for you.” He thrust the roses toward her.
She smiled. “Thank you. They’re beautiful. Shall I put them in water?”
“Aye, sure.” After handing her the bouquet, he wiped his sweaty hands on his khakis. “They’re pink on purpose. I’ll explain later,” he said, and nodded toward her father.
“Please don’t mind my dad. He’s just old-fashioned and sometimes forgets that a religious man must also be a gracious and hospitable host. Isn’t that right, Dad?” There was no response, but she knew that he’d picked up her tone, even if he didn’t understand her words. As they walked into the kitchen, she heard him shuffle into the front room.
“No one has ever brought me flowers.” It was true. Bringing a girl flowers was as outdated as Dylan.
“Do you like the pink?”
Maggie nodded. “It’s pretty.”
“Like you.” He looked away, embarrassed by what he’d said. “The colour is symbolic.” He glanced back and lowered his voice. “You see, yellow denotes jealousy and unfaithfulness, so that’s no good. And white denotes purity and virginity—not that I don’t think of you as pure, but I was hoping for something not entirely pure, if you catch my meaning—and red just seemed too much, you know. A little too fiery when we don’t know each other yet. Ah, I’m spillin’ over. I just can’t help myself—”
Maggie stared at him in disbelief. Was this babbling because of the spell or was this just Dylan?
“Pink, you see. Pink seemed just right because it signifies a fusion of purity and love.”
“Wow, that’s amazing, Dylan.” She’d have to record that spell in her journal. “Would you like a cup of tea?” She fluffed up the roses.
“I’d love a cup of tea. It’s weird how you remind me of my great-grannie.”
“Really?” she said, with a hint of venom in her breath. “How’s that?” Being compared to someone’s great-grandmother was at the farthest end of her compliment spectrum, though he didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, there’s the physical resemblance. She had the same fiery auburn hair, peachy skin and green eyes, and then there’s just a way you have about you. She passed on before I came to live in Tarbert, but Grandad said the kettle was always whistling on the hearth.”
“So, was your great-grandmother a witch?”
“Heavens no. She was a Presbyterian, the same as my gran.”
“Well, Dylan. I’m not like your great-grandmother at all then, because I’ve become a witch.” It came out in a rush; partly because she was offended at being compared to some ancient woman, but mostly because the spell had made him vulnerable and obsessed. If there was ever a time to push him, it was now.
“Oh, I hope it wasn’t because—”
“And I want you to get me into your coven.”
“But Maggie, it’s not that simple. It’s up to Sensara. She’s our high priestess, so she decides who comes and goes.”
“Well, talk to her. Recommend me.”
“I’ll do what I can, but there are things you should know. Like, it takes a year and a day of learning and practicing before you can be initiated. That’s our tradition.”
“Dylan.” Taking his hand, she raised it to her lips. “If you care about me, you’ll convince Sensara to let me in. You do want to be with me, don’t you?”
She kissed his fingertips with soft full lips and for the first time since he entered the house at the end of Hawk’s Claw Lane, Dylan McBride was speechless.
≈
“You look decrepit, man,” said Estrada. It was late Thursday afternoon at the Creel Café in Kitsilano and the place was packed with the university crowd. When a perky barista appeared with their order, he turned and smiled. Like Sensara, she had a soft Asian charm he found most appealing. Another day, he would have slipped her his card.
“My life has been bloody hideous lately,” Michael said. He was prone to bouts of melancholy which Estrada frequently ignored. “While you’ve been off charming the cruise crowd, I’ve been locked away with the local constabulary.” He rubbed his temples. “You should have taken me with you.”
“It was only two weeks, down the coast to L.A. and back. Trust me, you would have hated it. Besides, who’d look after the club?” Grasping his coffee, Estrada paused. “Inside or out?”
“Out, if you don’t mind. My need for tobacco has escalated.”
Settling into a corner table under the awning, Michael immediately took out his cigarettes and lit up. “Life’s just so desolate when you’re not here.” He exhaled and took a sip of his espresso. “You know, the police told me that I fit the profile of an organized serial killer.”
“As opposed to one who is unorganized?”
“You know what they say. I’m mad, bad, and dangerous.”
“I’m intrigued, Lord Byron. How do you fit this profile?”
“Well, there’s a checklist: intelligent male—don’t laugh, the police affirmed this—aged twenty to thirty, has a social life, holds down a good job, and indulges in sexual fantasies.”
Estrada scoffed. “That describes most males in Vancouver, particularly patrons of Pegasus.”
“I know, and I told them: it’s not fantasy if you do it.”
“That does make it reality.”
“Exactly. I think the bastards are persecuting me because of the fangs.” Raising his upper lip in a snarl, he exposed a very long canine tooth. Estrada thought of Clive and how much fun it would be to scare the hell out of him one night. “It’s medieval. Soon they’ll be chasing me down Robson with torches and pitchforks.”
“If you could only be a good boy and live in this century.”
“We are who we are.”
“Perhaps they’re aware of your sideline.” Nicknamed The E-vamp by his clients, Michael dealt in erotigens of the highest quality and randomly shared them with the patrons of Pegasus. He trusted his sources so well, he offered a money back guarantee. No one had ever complained.
“Oh yes. Drugs were mentioned. Someone—and I have a damn good idea who—told them that I drugged the girl at the club. And later, someone saw me carry her out of my flat, dump her in my car, and drive off.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Of course, that’s just bullshit. I said: if someone is hanging around outside my flat at four in the morning, watching my comings and goings, perhaps I should be the one pressing charges.”
“Clive.”
“Yes, I fear my dastardly younger brother is intent on framing me. I get that he wants the club. It’s a great club. But why now?”
“Good question. Nigel said that you hadn’t seen or heard from him in years.”
“That’s true. Nigel’s been airing the family skeletons since his arrival. Before that, neither of my grandparents said much about our past. Care to hear the sordid story?”
Estrada nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“My parents were killed in a car crash. I was two and a half, and Clive was still an infant. Nigel filed papers to adopt us both, but the Twyfford-Farringtons—that’s my mother’s family—disputed it.
“Of course, I can understand why. They’d just lost their daughter and Nigel had plans to immigrate to Canada with both their grandsons. Still. When the legal dust settled, we were split apart. I came here with the Strykers and Clive stayed in London with the Twyffs. I really don’t know him at all.”
“Families,” said Estrada, thinking of his own severed relationships.
“What I don’t understand is what the little shit is doing here now. It’s not like he’s destitute. According to Nigel, the Twyfford-Farringtons are a wealthy and influential family.” He sipped the last of his coffee and put down the cup. “Apparently, Clive’s a doctor—studied medicine at Cambridge.” He took a drag from his cigarette and blew a smoke ring. “You know that Byron went to Cambridge.”
Estrada ignored the aside. “Maybe the club means more to him than money.”
The server came by and Michael ordered another double espresso. “God, I think she winced. Do I really look that bad?”
“Not for a dead guy.”
Michael shrugged. “We need to find that girl. Even if she’s dead. I know that sounds morbid, but a good investigator could prove my innocence. All they’ve got now are profiles and lies.”
“No suspects besides you?”
“Worried?” Michael smirked and smoothed his loose hair with pale thin hands. “Nigel’s contact says that Jade—I realize her real name is Sarah Jamieson, but she will always be Jade to me—Jade has a jealous ex-boyfriend who’s been stalking her.”
“Really. Did you get a name?”
“Clayton Cole. And get this: he’s a computer nerd, a webmaster for some Wicca site.”
“He could have monitored her chats, known where she was going, who she was talking to.” Michael shrugged. Computers were not par
t of his archaic world. “So, Cole may have been following her that night.”
“Oh, he was. Do you remember that maniac that burst into the club? The guy in sweats? That was Cole. The poor girl was most distressed.”
“Oh yeah. The boys threw him out, didn’t they?”
Michael nodded. “I think he’s the prime suspect.”
“Maybe so. Do you think that Clayton Cole could be the witness that saw you put Jade into your car?”
“You mean considering that I didn’t put Jade in my car?” Estrada grinned. “I don’t know. I mean, why would her ex frame me?”
“Why not? Let’s suppose, Cole followed you two back to your place and waited outside. When she emerged, he confronted her, and things escalated. You’d be the perfect fall guy. Then there’s the revenge motive. She chose you over him that night.” Estrada took a sip of his mocha latté. “I mean, this is all just speculation, but there are at least two men who could have been hanging around outside your flat that night.”
“Clayton Cole and brother Clive.”
Estrada nodded. “So what did happen? I mean, I know you partied, but did she call a cab or anything before she left?”
He shook his head. “No idea. I passed out. And I feel guilty. That’s probably what the cops see in me. The woman was a goddess. I should have insisted she spend the night, or at least made sure she got home safely considering how exquisite she was. She was so good to me. I can’t get her out of my mind.” Sighing, he closed his eyes. ‘Violet eyes, long glistening neck. I do adore a long neck. She had a snake tat crawling down her ass, stunning nipples, a pierced belly button. Oh, and the pièce de résistance…a diamond-studded cli—”
“Ah, the woman with amethyst eyes. I remember her now.”
“She walks in beauty like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies.”
“I’m amazed how enchanted you are. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you quote Byron after one night with one woman.”
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 6