To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  The next thing Maggie knew; she was on her knees bent over the toilet at Taaffe’s. Primrose stood behind her and held back her hair.

  “Is this why you shaved your head?”

  “No, it’s not. You probably didn’t notice, but I don’t drink alcohol.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ah well. You’ll have the answer to that soon enough.”

  ≈

  Maggie dug her tear-streaked face into her fey friend’s leather back and tightened the grip around her waist. They were careening up the N17 on Primrose’s motorbike as if it was midsummer and there were no speed limits. As slight as a willow stick and twice as pliant, Primrose was so slender, Maggie could slip her hands inside her opposite sleeves. Thank god. The weather had turned bitter cold, too cold for riding a motorbike, yet here they were, racing up the slick Irish tarmac in the late November dawn.

  Primrose emanated heat like a micro furnace, while Maggie wished for mittens and a parka; wished she could perform movie magic—the blink and it’s done stuff. What was the point of being a witch if you still felt everything like everybody else and could do nothing about it?

  One thing Maggie had learned about Primrose was that there was no stopping her. She was a woman in constant motion. Maggie still did not understand where they were going or why. When she asked, Primrose answered with one of her usual cryptic questions. You never really know where you’re going till you get there, do you now?

  Maggie fought the urge to puke down the back of the woman’s leather jacket—vaguely recalling a comment from the previous night—but knew there could be dire consequences. It would serve Primrose right for letting her get drunk, encouraging her even. She was just a kid and Primrose had set her up. Who provides an underage kid with fake ID and then takes her on a pub crawl? Her head was throbbing.

  They whizzed by another sign, this one perched on the edge of the hedge that bordered the N4, and then another, written in Gaelic, Sligeach—however that was said—and then suddenly Primrose veered left at the roundabout, and they raced down the narrow edge of Ballysadare Bay. Even the sea emitted a green sheen in Ireland. Perhaps it was the algae or some reflection from the lush fields that surrounded them on all sides. Ireland was as green as its reputation, carpeted in verdant grasslands; dotted with cottages and cows, giant boulders and leafy shrubs.

  The drizzle began as Primrose stopped the motorbike. They were parked in the middle of a farmer’s field. Chubby calves, some sleekly white, others curly black or brown, blinked at them, then continued munching the wet salty grass.

  “This way.” Primrose cocked her head and darted along a dirt lane rutted by tractor tires. A huge cairn of grey rocks piled on top of a hill, caught Maggie’s attention. She was about to ask about it when suddenly the world spun. Her stomach heaved and ejected what she prayed was the last of its contents. When she straightened up, Primrose thrust a small flask in her hand.

  “Drink up. You’ll be dehydrated,” she ordered in her usual clipped tone, without a hint of sympathy.

  “I’m never drinking again,” Maggie stated. After draining the bottle, she wiped her mouth with her sleeve, and pointed up. “What’s that rock pile? Tell me we’re not hiking up there.”

  “That before you is Knocknarea. It’s—”

  “Wait. I know this. Yeats wrote about Knocknarea in the book Estrada gave me. I have it here.” She fished through her bag and produced the paperback. “It’s right at the beginning. His poem is called ‘The Hosting of the Sidhe’ and—”

  “That’s pronounced shee,” said Primrose, “and do you know who the sidhe are?”

  “Well, he says: ‘Away, come away; empty your heart of its mortal dream.’ Obviously they’re immortal. Probably ghosts or the faeries Estrada wants to meet.”

  “Or both,” said Primrose, with a sly wink. “Now Cnoc na Riabh—cnoc meaning hill and riabh meaning royalty—is so named because it holds Maeve’s Cairn, or as we say in Irish, Miosgán Meadhbha.”

  “I wish I could speak Irish. It’s beautiful.”

  “Aye. You can and you will.”

  Maggie considered this. Was she just being optimistic? Or was Primrose a psychic like Sensara? “Who was Maeve?” she asked.

  “Queen of all Connacht. And this rock pile, as you put it, is part of the passage tomb in which she was buried five thousand years ago—standing straight up, they say, sword in hand and armed for battle. We Celtic women are warriors.”

  Warriors. Am I a warrior too? Entranced, Maggie said nothing.

  “Now, are you steady girl? We’re going to climb to the top of this mound of stones so you can see the land of your ancestors. It’s time you got to know who you are and where you come from.”

  Maggie hiked up the steep worn path, grasping rocks to steady herself in the slick mud. Her haggard breaths revealed just how out of shape she’d become. A night of ciders hadn’t helped either. She swallowed to relieve her parched throat, then slid backwards and braced her foot against a rock. Primrose produced the small flask again and passed it back. Maggie eyed it cautiously.

  “Pure water.”

  Maggie shot her a questioning glance, but Primrose just laughed, her face glowing like the morning sun that hovered over the pasture. The water tasted rich and earthy, like it had come from a spring deep inside the earth. Maggie drank and drank, yet when she handed back the flask, the weight felt unchanged.

  “Holy well,” said Primrose, by way of explanation.

  Maggie shook her head warily, her thoughts drifting back to Yeats’ faerie caution: never drink or eat their food. The consequence of such a blunder was the loss of one’s senses and the ability to return home; at least until the faeries finished with you, and that could take seven human years. Was this really one of their haunts? What secrets were buried beneath five thousand years of rock and dirt? The erect skeleton of a warrior queen; perhaps even the brittle bones of her own ancestors?

  “During the Iron Age, Ireland was split into five kingdoms,” explained Primrose, pointing as she spoke. “Ulster in the north, Munster in the south, Leinster in the east, and Connacht in the west, which is where you’re standing. Mide was dead centre at Tara, and that was where the High King lived. We’ll go there sometime, so.” Primrose turned and continued climbing.

  “Soon, I hope,” said Maggie. She’d always liked history, but this was fascinating because it was her story. She wanted to see and hear it all.

  Just over an hour later, they reached the top. Revived by holy water and pure oxygenated air, Maggie forgot about her headache and danced in circles, arms outstretched. There by the cairn on the top of the world, she felt the heart of the land beat within her blood. Rocks and cows dotted the green fields, and in the distance stood a misty city by the sea.

  “What’s that place?” She had to shout as the strong wind on the hilltop caught their voices.

  “Sligo.”

  “Sly-go,” Maggie said slowly.

  “Aye. Sligeach–the place of the shells.”

  Shells. Seafood. Clam chowder. “Can we get something to eat there?”

  “Aye sure. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But I’m starving now.”

  ≈

  Icy rain splattered Estrada’s cheeks as he crossed the Old Alexandra Bridge on his Harley. He parked his bike in a stand of trees, stashed his helmet, and grabbed his pack. Then, after tucking everything beneath a tarp, he set off toward the cave. Beside him, the surging Fraser River was peppered with raindrops by an ominous sky. It was early Friday night—a night he usually performed his show at Pegasus—and he shivered. Like Macbeth, his world had swung “out of joint.”

  Wending his way through the rock trail, he wondered how it had come to this. Confounded by his obsession, he imagined the killer, called to him, begged him to come, to take the risk. His only redemption was in finding the man and taking him down, even if it meant going down with him. He patted the flap pocket in his pack, felt the hard thin shape of the knife, and picked up his p
ace. He’d not used a weapon in a very long time; had sworn once never to use one again. But, that was then and this was now. This man was a lunatic who kidnapped women and burned them—a psychopath who needed to be put out of his misery.

  He made good time following the trail which, marked and broken by police, now led directly to the cave. Investigators, in search of evidence, had cordoned off the area with bright yellow tape and sifted methodically through Dylan’s rubble. He didn’t know what they’d found, but suspected his DNA would turn up somewhere someday—preferably not in a courtroom. Rocks had been rolled or carried from the opening, and the cave, now clear of debris, looked remarkably like it had the first time he’d seen it.

  The man’s body had not been found. Like the wind, he’d slipped through a fissure to freedom.

  Estrada crawled inside, lit four candles, and placed one in each cardinal direction. Then, he laid down on the earthen floor and conjured him; remembering the scent and feel of him, the moist fingers against his lips, and the ferocious details of their first baffling encounter. He could not identify the man by sight, but if ever he touched him again, even for a moment, he would know.

  Betrayed by his wayward body, he fought for control. What the hell was it? Pheromones? Karma? The charm? What drew him so intensely to this lunatic? He scowled at his own lack of restraint. What if the man came now and saw him like this, aroused and waiting? Would he be able to confront and capture him, or would the man bemuse him yet again?

  As the fire cast flickering shadows against the darkened walls, he pulled himself up to a seated position, slipped off his wet boots, and crossed his legs. Like the Buddha, he would meditate until he was no longer at the mercy of his demons.

  But that too was short-lived. An undisciplined extrovert, he could neither stand seclusion nor control the chaos in his mind. Constantly drawn from observing his breath by howling wind and scraping branches, he began his own “wild imaginings.” Had he, like Macbeth, succumbed to the spell cast by the witches; witches who were no Weird Sisters, but ironically, healers from his own coven? He had neither murdered like Macbeth, nor intentionally harmed anyone, yet he had caused suffering. Stricken by lust, his own hedonistic pleasure, he accepted that he was the sole creator of this tragedy. There really was no one else to blame.

  As night dragged on he slept fitfully, turning from back to side and back again, feeling every bump and dip in the pounded earth. Finally, needing to urinate, he opened his eyes to darkness and fished around in his coat pocket until he produced a lighter. Removing two candles from his pack, he lit them, then crawled on his knees to the opening in the rock and peered out into the screeching night.

  Snow pelted helter-skelter in hard icy flakes and formed crystalline ridges sculpted by the wind. Still in his sock feet, he unzipped his fly and sent a steaming stream of piss arcing three feet from the door. The temperature had dropped to below freezing with the wind chill. Shivering, he returned to his pack and pulled out a fleece blanket. Unrolling it, he produced a mickey of his father’s best friend, Mexican tequila. Just a few sips—that’s all he needed.

  13: As Breath Into the Wind

  MAGGIE WAS HUNKERED DOWN inside a dolmen. Like all the megaliths at Carrowmore, it was erected from immense granite boulders that had been dislodged by retreating glaciers after the last Ice Age. Thousands of years ago, some Neolithic tribe managed to move these boulders into position: six slabs in a circular formation covered by a seventh—a flat capstone that crowned them all. Knowing it had stood for millennia did nothing to stem the sensation of being crushed beneath it.

  Naturally, this was Primrose’s idea. This particular dolmen was one of the witch’s favourites; one she frequented at propitious times. Tonight was a dark moon, a time for introspection, for peeling back daylight layers and exposing inner truth, and Maggie was tasked with spending the night alone in meditation. She sat on the rough earthen floor, wrapped in a brown woollen blanket, and gazed through the stone portal into the night sky. Thick stratus clouds threatened rain and obscured any chance of stargazing. At least if it rained, the capstone would provide some shelter from the elements, if not the elementals.

  She wasn’t scared. Not really. There was nothing to fear. No bands of drunken marauders looking to party, no bears or cougars like in the woods at Buntzen Lake. Besides, Primrose was nearby, herself in solitary contemplation, somewhere amidst the sixty odd monuments.

  The Neolithic farmers came by boat with seeds, cattle, and pigs, Primrose said. Using stone tools, they cleared the forests and planted fields of barley. The megaliths were huge stone tombs that housed the cremated bones of their dead. Maggie felt like a tiny pinprick in the vastness of time, smaller than the ash on the sole of her shoe, this dust of her ancestors.

  Surely, the tomb builders understood that the spirit separated from the body after its decline. Perhaps that’s why they built these megaliths and buried the ashes of their families and friends. Where did they think spirits went when they died? Maggie had never known anyone who’d died, but her father could die. Where would his spirit go? A month ago, she would have said heaven—that’s what she’d been taught. But now she wasn’t sure. She’d crossed an ocean running from a priest and that threw everything she’d ever believed into question.

  She closed her eyes and imagined a cobalt blue circle in the centre of her forehead. Touching it gave her focus. With each breath her chest rose and fell. In the distance, a cow bellowed, forgotten in the darkness. Raindrops hit the rock with a light tap and the scent of wet earth teased her nostrils.

  Soon there was nothing: no sound but the drumming of her own heart as it pumped blood through her body. In her mind, she visualized pulsing veins and arteries. In this body there was muscle, bone, breath, and flesh. Then suddenly, she was no longer in that body, but above it. Hovering under the granite capstone, tethered by a silver cord, Maggie stared at the girl who sat below as contemplative as a yogi.

  Suddenly aware of her body again, she felt cold and cramped. She stretched out her legs, rubbed her hands together to generate heat, blew on her palms, and massaged her arms, legs, and feet. What time was it? How long had she hovered outside like that? Seconds? Hours? Her belly growled for food, but she had none. Primrose had laid down the rules. She must fast and stay awake throughout the night. She knew this was some kind of test, an initiation of sorts, and she was just stubborn enough to try and pass it.

  The scent of savoury grilled meat made her salivate. She opened her eyes. People wandered in the grass beyond the kerbstones that encircled the dolmen. A family was cooking over a wood fire pit. She rubbed her eyes to dislodge the hallucination but the images remained. Laughing children tossed berries into shells as they played an ancient carnival game. Then others came, carrying baskets and wearing a fabric of woven plants, berry red and leafy green; their long hair hanging jagged or plaited with vines. Two men played flutes, while others drummed, and soon the people were dancing. Nothing looked the same. The grassy meadows were no longer barren, but swaddled by trees, their branches quivering with songbirds. Wild roses perfumed the air and ripe juicy berries drooped low, begging to be plucked. Neolithic Ireland.

  Maggie sprang from the dolmen and ran into their midst. She spied Primrose, near naked, with only a fragment tied across her hips. Dancing among them, her tattooed head waved with the music. Maggie caught her hand and joined in. As walls fell away, she forgot everything but the throbbing music and the heartbeat of the earth surging up her bare legs and through her body. Weaving between them, she laughed and touched their shadowy skin and felt more alive than she had ever felt before.

  If this was Faerie, seven years was too short a time. Given the chance, she would stay forever.

  When Maggie awoke, she and Primrose were cuddled up like sisters under the woollen blanket.

  “Ah, you’re back,” the fey witch whispered.

  “Wow. That was”—she searched for the words— “Did you—?”

  “Aye, sure.” Primrose sat up an
d stretched. “Look, the sun’s rising over the valley. It’s grand, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Maggie, struggling to stand in the cramped dolmen.

  “You must be starved, girleen. Let’s drive to Sligo and find a good fry-up. Then you can tell me about your night.”

  “Yum…hash browns.” A vision of Bastian flashed through her mind, drawing her back to the kitchen of the log house. “When we get there I’d like to call my mom. It’s weird, but I miss her. I want to know why she left this place. It seems like we never really talked about anything important, and I feel like I don’t know her at all. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Leaving something is a sure way of telling whether you still love it or have had your fill. I think that’s why some folks get back and others never do.” Maggie had the feeling that Primrose wasn’t just talking about this world anymore. “There’s some that want to come back and can’t. They get so enthralled they can’t break free. To ease the pain, they try to forget everything that’s come before. Then, after a while they forget who they are and where they belong.”

  When Primrose stepped out of the dolmen, Maggie followed. As they walked through the wet grass, she called back over her shoulder, “Maybe your ma was one of those. The question is: which one are you?”

  ≈

  Estrada awoke to the stench of charring salmon. He was nauseous. Refused to open his eyes. Repulsed by the rancid taste of his own breath, every cell in his body deranged, he laid still for several minutes, trying to will the hangover away. Damn tequila. He tried to remember how he’d ended up here.

  On a hunch, he’d gone back to the cave hoping that Grace would appear. But, he hadn’t. At least, Maggie was safely on her way to Ireland. He could go back to sleep. No one would know. No one would care. He was almost there when the thought struck him: someone was cooking fish and that someone could be him.