The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Go,” she said. “Sleep.”

  “We’ll find him,” Donovan said. “Just because the children are safe, doesn’t mean I’m not taking this seriously.”

  “I know.”

  “I researched the senior facility while you were away.”

  “I can’t believe you had the time.”

  He smiled. “There was a brief, blissful moment when the twins weren’t screaming their heads off. You’ve probably forgotten, but we attended a party with the facility’s owner last year.”

  “We did?” Donovan’s world was entertainment. But for Riga, the cocktail parties and dinners were an unwanted blur of wealthy acquaintances.

  “There’s big money in those facilities,” he said, “especially with the country’s aging populace.”

  Her face tightened. “We used to take care of our elderly relatives, kept them at home, living with us. Now we warehouse them, try to forget they exist.” In a nation dreaming of eternal youth, no one wanted to worry about the ravages of age. Or deal with the stress and hassle of caring for an adult.

  Caring for two small children was hard. Riga couldn’t imagine the challenge of bathing and feeding and changing a full-grown adult. And yet people had once done it. Many still did as a matter of course.

  Donovan angled his head. “Is that what the place is? A warehouse?”

  “I didn’t get the full tour. Maybe I’m being unfair. It’s the noise though, the electronics and the talking and the other patients. It batters you, and there’s no escape.”

  “Turk is proud of that place. And like I said, it’s a moneymaker. Facilities like his are considered hot investments.”

  “Are you thinking of investing in one?”

  One corner of his mouth crooked. “It would make a good excuse to meet with Turk, get an official tour.”

  “You’re brilliant.”

  “And good with children.” He smiled, grew serious. “These deaths weren’t your fault, Riga.”

  Except they were.

  “The only person responsible is the killer,” he said. “You couldn’t have known he’d go after the owners of that car.”

  She didn’t want to talk about it, think about it, anymore. “You’re right,” she lied. “Is the owner’s name really Turk?”

  “Turk Jamison.”

  “I want to learn everything I can about him and Sunset Towers. Finances, lawsuits—”

  “I think you’re taking my investigative resources for granted.”

  Her cheeks warmed. She was a licensed private investigator and knew full well how to get that information on her own. But Donovan had an army of employees, and they were faster. “Are you suggesting I’m getting soft?”

  “I like you soft.” His lips grazed hers.

  She sighed. “I should talk to Pen and Brigitte.”

  “Tease.”

  “If you’re still awake when I get back—”

  “I will be,” he said, his voice hoarse. His hands slipped up her arms, drawing her against him. She kissed him lightly.

  Releasing her, he shambled into their bedroom.

  Walking into an empty guest room, she threw open the balcony door. A quarter moon hung low over the lake, leaving a rippling, mercury trail in its black water. She buttoned her safari jacket. “Brigitte,” she said in a low voice and sent her will out behind the name.

  After a moment, something clunked onto the sloped roof. Dry pine needles showered the balcony.

  Riga edged sideways, avoiding the deluge.

  Brigitte dropped onto the railing. Movements ungainly, she hopped to face Riga. “So?”

  “Were you able to track the car?”

  “What car?”

  “What…” Riga’s neck stiffened. “What do you mean what car? The car that tried to follow Ash and me from the crime scene. You were at the crime scene?”

  Brigitte shuffled sideways on the rail.

  “You weren’t?” Riga’s eyes widened.

  “I am a gargoyle, not a magician. I cannot be in two places at once. We agreed that I was to teach and protect ze brave Pen.”

  “Yes, but it was a double homicide! You love homicides!” Riga couldn’t remember a time when Brigitte wasn’t inserting herself into a case.

  “Was dark magic involved?”

  “I didn’t sense any. But there was an upside-down cross. I suspect the killer is allied with the man who jumped me outside the senior facility, which by the way, doesn’t have any ghosts.”

  Brigitte blinked her stony eyelids. “The same man? If he wants to find you, he may come here, and Pen…”

  “And Pen?” Riga prompted.

  “Everyone may be in danger.”

  “I spoke to Donovan about the twins. We’ve agreed home is the safest place for them now.”

  “And Pen?” Brigitte asked.

  “I’m thinking Pen should leave, go somewhere safe. Maybe you can talk to her.”

  “There is no point. She will not go. It is not her path.”

  “It’s my house. She’ll go if I tell her to.”

  “You will not find that so easy.”

  Riga shifted her weight. “What do you mean about her path? And why weren’t you at the crime scene tonight?”

  “You did not ask me.”

  “Since when do I have to ask you?” Brigitte was her familiar, and they had a bond. As irritating as that connection could be, Brigitte was always there at the faintest hint of danger.

  “Pen required my assistance.”

  “I’m glad you’re helping her, but you’re my…” Lungs tightening, she lowered her head, the realization taking her breath away. Brigitte hadn’t come to the crime scene. Her only concern about Gold Watch was how he’d affect Pen. And there had been other things, little signs she’d paid no attention to and should have. Brigitte had always had an unusual interest in Pen.

  “It was not my choice,” Brigitte said.

  “You’re not my familiar anymore, are you? You belong to Pen now.”

  Brigitte rustled her wings. “At last, ze truth it dawns.”

  “How?” Riga asked quietly, leaning against the wooden railing. The betrayal stabbed at her. She shook her head. It wasn’t a betrayal. It was Pen. Their lives were changing, and if they were changing without Riga’s say-so, well, that was life, wasn’t it? “I thought you moved on only after your magician died.”

  “That is how it was since I was made, centuries ago.”

  “And now?”

  Brigitte shrugged. “You have changed. I have changed. Pen has changed. Pick one. But the rules are different now.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Five months ago.”

  “Five months!” Five months, and she hadn’t noticed. Her heart and mind and energies had been full of the babies.

  “Pen is ze true heir. She is curious. Adventurous. Full of ze joy of magic. Pen is so like my first master, that at times I wonder if…”

  “Wonder what?”

  “A fancy, nothing more.”

  “You. Fancies?”

  “Even I dream, Riga.”

  Riga bowed her head. “Does Pen know?”

  “I think a part of her does, though she will not admit it. She feels ze change is disloyal.”

  “Well.” Riga cleared her throat. “That’s ridiculous. If it had to be anyone, I’m glad it’s Pen.” But that was a lie. She’d assumed Brigitte would be there to guide her own children. “She’ll learn a lot from you.”

  “She has already learned most of what she needs from you.”

  “I doubt that.” Riga walked inside and down the hall to Pen’s room. She rapped on the door.

  Pen opened the door in her pajamas – loose, pink floral pants and a white tank top. Yawning, she rumpled her hair. “You’re back. How did it go?”

  “They removed the bodies as I arrived.” She told Pen about the cross, the car, the man.

  Pen slumped onto the bed, its burnt-orange coverlet folded back. “He’s on your trail.”
>
  “I think so too.”

  “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not leave,” Pen said. “Not yet. Leaving feels… wrong. Like there’s something I need to finish first, and I can’t do that if I go.”

  “Pen…” Riga hesitated. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You’re an adult now. You understand the risks. But are you here because you’re searching for answers or because you’re hiding?”

  Pen angled her head, lips pursed. “I can’t do this sort of work in my parents’ house, so if that’s what you mean by ‘hiding,’ then there’s truth to that. Being here with Brigitte, able to just do the work, distraction free, is wonderful.”

  Riga’s gaze lost focus. When had Pen gone from angry teen to self-possessed young woman? She rubbed her chest, tried to banish a pang of loss. “Then I should give you your next lesson and tell you about my ward generator.”

  “Finally! Brigitte won’t say a word.”

  “She disapproves of my shortcuts. Are you familiar with quantum entanglement?”

  “Wasn’t a neutron split, and then when the scientists observed the two halves, each behaved the same way? Each half followed the other’s movements, even though they were separated?”

  “Particles, but close enough. Crystals work the same way. If one is accidentally broken, the pieces remain connected at an energetic level. There are eight poles to my ward around the house, one at each compass point. Ideally, find a crystal broken into nine pieces. Bury one piece of the crystal at each of the ward’s compass points. Store the ninth piece in your generator. I use a silk bag.”

  Pen grimaced. “Protection. You always said I should work on that first. I wish I’d listened sooner.”

  “New Orleans, you mean.” Riga sat on the edge of the bed. “Maybe you’re more like me than Brigitte thinks. I always had to learn things the hard way.”

  Pen frowned.

  “Sorry,” Riga said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “No, it’s okay. I screwed up. I was taken. And I put you and Donovan in danger. Nothing you said was untrue.”

  “I didn’t exactly say that. Brigitte told me I carried guilt, and I do, because it can be helpful. It reminds me of where I went wrong. You just have to make sure it doesn’t rule you.”

  Pen swallowed. “Tell me more about the ward generator.”

  “Find more broken crystals. Visit sacred sites and place one half of the crystal in the ground at the site, the other half in your generator bag. It will direct energy from the sacred site into your generator. From there, the crystals will direct the energy into the ward.”

  “Any kind of crystal?”

  “Clear quartz. Obsidian works too if you think you’re at risk of major attack.” Riga used obsidian. Why take chances?

  Pen hunched, elbows on knees. “It seems so… mechanical. I can see why Brigitte might see it as a shortcut.”

  “She’s got a soft spot for the Renaissance. The more time-consuming the spell-work, the better.” Riga liked the classics too, but they were living in the modern age. “But a generator isn’t just mechanics. Each point of the ward needs to be magically activated. Brigitte can teach you the proper spells.”

  “She’s been too busy pushing me to meditate and go inward to teach me proper magic. That’s why I’ve been doing so much reading from your occult library.”

  Riga stilled. “Has she?”

  “She says in hermetic philosophy, mysticism and magic connect, but they seem like different arts to me.”

  “Magical work can help develop your mystic vision, which happens to be the foundation for magical work.” It was like an ouroboros, a snake biting its own tail. Her brow wrinkled. An ouroboros… What did that remind her of?

  Her niece rose, pacing the dark wood floor, then dropped onto the corner of the bed. “But if I can’t protect myself, what good is meditation?”

  “Pen, you don’t have to stay here. Go home, be safe. Brigitte will go with you, and you can continue your studies.”

  Expression steady, Pen gave a slight shake of her head. “Please don’t send me away. I need to stay.”

  Riga wanted to shout with frustration. “Why?”

  Pen turned to the curtained balcony doors. “I can’t explain it to you. I just need to be here for a bit longer.”

  “You can’t explain it to me, but you can explain it to someone else?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Pen, what happened in New Orleans—”

  “Won’t happen again. I’m not that person.”

  “No.” Riga stared at her hands and rubbed the back of her wedding band with her thumb. She missed the old, impetuous Pen, and was unsure what to make of the serious, more mature version. But there was a quiet assurance in the new Pen that Riga found hard to argue with, and her annoyance vanished. “Maybe Brigitte knew what she was about when she began training you as a mystic.”

  “I’m not that deep,” Pen said. “But I do want to be able to protect myself, and Brigitte’s training—”

  “Brigitte knows what she’s doing. Trust her.”

  “I’m not sure I can.” Pen’s leg jerked, her bare foot skimming the sisal rug. “I don’t know where Brigitte is taking me.”

  “She won’t steer you wrong.”

  “You don’t understand. You talked about guilt, letting it guide but not rule me. But I don’t feel any. New Orleans seems like a dream now, like someone else was making all those mistakes. I feel… happy. Content. Am I becoming a sociopath?”

  Riga crossed her legs. “If you have to ask, then probably not.” But disquiet whispered against her spine.

  “The meditation, the staring at the night sky – did Brigitte make you do that?”

  “No, but you and I aren’t the same people. Our magic is different, so our training will be too.”

  “Maybe, but I want to learn more about the mechanics of magic. The plain old how-to. The incantations. The rituals. How else can I help defend myself or the twins when the time comes?”

  “Let’s make sure it doesn’t. You’ve got my library, and I’ll help you with the rituals. But what Brigitte is teaching you is important. Dark magic can’t touch the pure of heart.” And that was only one reason why Riga would never be safe.

  Pen angled her head, disbelieving. “Hm.”

  “You’ve heard of the so-called law of attraction? Consider this the law of repulsion. A magical attack can only touch you if there’s darkness in your aura to glom onto.”

  Pen laughed hollowly. “But there’s darkness in everyone.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “Now you sound like a mystic.”

  One corner of Riga’s mouth slanted upward. “No such luck.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The sky outside the glass kitchen door lightened. Gray gave way to a shimmer of gold, limning the mountain peaks, reflecting off the lake. At the kitchen’s granite counter, Riga yawned and fed the twins in their bouncers. A TV played, mute, in the wall. Riga hadn’t turned it on and after a sleepless night with the twins, hadn’t the energy to turn it off.

  Oz sat on the burnt-umber colored tiles at her feet, tail thumping.

  The babies grasped each other’s tiny hands.

  “Cute.” Barefoot and in her PJs, Pen wandered into the kitchen and bee-lined for the coffee maker. “But I know their true, crying, pooping, spit-upping natures.”

  On cue, Jack made a face and burped clotted, whitish liquid over the front of his romper.

  “And that is why I will never buy expensive baby clothes,” Riga said.

  His face reddened, screwing up, and Riga hastily blotted up the worst of Jack’s mess. If he started in, Emma would too, and Riga was bleary-eyed enough to join them. Desperate, she rocked his bouncer and cooed.

  Emma stared at her brother, her eyes widening.

  Oh, God. It was going to happen. Any second now. “Pen, quick. Give Emma her bottle before she starts crying.”

  Brigitte soared into the kitch
en and landed hard on the counter, knocking baby bottles to the tile floor.

  Jack’s mouth closed, and he blinked. He stretched for the gargoyle, and Brigitte hopped out of his reach.

  Riga exhaled. Disaster averted.

  Pen scooped up the fallen bottles. The dog sniffed at the spot where they’d landed and lapped a spattering of liquid from the tile floor. Just one more reason to love that dog.

  Digging a clean romper from the diaper bag on the floor, Riga changed Jack’s clothing. Her fingers felt thick, clumsy.

  “Extra security?” Pen gestured at the security guard who had stepped into view on the deck.

  She rubbed the back of her aching neck. “Magic can’t solve everything.” Her wards would keep hostile magical people out. They were less effective against ordinary criminals.

  Pen paused in front of the TV. The old man in the cowboy hat was on again, his mouth moving and no words coming out. She shook her head. “What a mess.”

  “Hm?”

  “A standoff at an organic farm just on the other side of the hill.” She went to the window and stared over the lake. “The farmer and his neighbors are losing their leases to the government.”

  “And?” Riga popped the top off a jar of baby food.

  “And now people are showing up from all over to keep the government out.”

  “Amazing,” Riga said.

  “That he’s losing his land?”

  “That there’s organic farming in Nevada.”

  “So do you need a babysitter today?” Pen asked.

  “Um.” Riga glanced at Brigitte. “Yes, if you don’t mind.”

  “Pen doesn’t mind,” Brigitte said.

  “Really?” Riga asked, surprised. Brigitte was territorial about Pen’s time.

  “A true magician knows how to maintain her focus through distractions. And those shrieking little blobs—”

  “They are not blobs.” Riga frowned at Jack. The twins were a lot less blobby at five months than they had been at birth.

  “Aw, Brigitte, now you’re just being mean,” Pen said. “The twins are amazing. They’ve already got personalities.”

  “You are both projecting,” Brigitte said. “Personalities!? All they do is eat and cry and create toxic messes. One must be objective. Every mother thinks her children are precious darlings.”