“Those kids of yours. Innocents overflowing with magic. Damn.” He propped himself on one elbow and smiled, post-coital bliss. “And you! It thought your soul had value, it could take you once they were gone. But you’re nothing compared to her. What is she?”
His casualness shook her. “Why Verdun?” Her voice trembled. “How did you get her involved?”
“She was easy. Has a taste for bad boys.”
“A habit of picking abusers, you mean.”
“You know how it is.” He shrugged. “You always hurt the one you love. She was where I needed her.”
“Inside the Sunset Towers. You met when she was living in Vegas, establishing residency for her divorce.”
“Out of the frying pan, into the fire.”
“And you shot Sheriff King because he was figuring things out. He knew your plan to bomb the Towers. By the way, that explosion you’re not hearing? That’s your bomb not going off.”
He snarled. “There’s no way you could have disarmed it. You’re lying.”
“I am? You hear any sirens? Here’s a newsflash. Demons aren’t the best advisors when it comes to using modern technology. What about the senator? Is he a part of this?”
He shook himself, grinned. “With my help, he’ll be President in four years.”
“Making him seem like a victim of a domestic terrorist group. That’s over.”
“Nah. It’s never over.”
“You’re going to jail.”
He gave her a lazy smile. “Am I?”
Her breath caught. Would he? She thought of the sheriff’s warning about the powerful. “Does Stile know what you are?”
He snorted. “Are you kidding? Demons? He wouldn’t believe it if one bit him in the ass. I nearly did bite him the other day.” He rubbed his chest, rumpling his blazer. “What is that girl?”
Blood pounded in her ears. He’d killed Brigitte and others, and he had no remorse. He may see jail, but now that he knew how to invoke, there was nothing to stop him from calling in a demon again – from prison, if necessary. And when he did, they — he and whatever demon he summoned — would come for her family. Prison bars would be no barrier.
She edged sideways. Her foot nudged against a piece of stone. Brigitte’s eye stared, unseeing, and loss lanced her.
A siren wailed in the distance.
The gargoyle had been right all along. He needed to die.
Tanhauser lurched forward.
She shot him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Riga cradled her daughter, lying on Riga’s chest. Emma adjusted herself in her sleep, and Riga kissed the top of her head. This was all that mattered. Not the fear and anger. Not the questions and suspicion from the police and FBI. Just this moment. Right now.
Donovan sat beside her on the penthouse balcony. The fire pit crackled with warmth. Below, the lake was a pool of ink reflecting moon and stars.
Donovan rubbed the small, cross-shaped scar on his chin. “I’m sorry. You didn’t want that bastard to chase us from our home. And here we are.”
“The babies can’t sleep in their nursery tonight.” Or ever again. If Tanhauser’s ghost tried to show, she’d banish him. But her own memory of what had happened there sliced too deep. “Not to mention the press swamping our driveway. How long do you think that siege will continue?”
“Until the next media scandal. I’ll deal with them.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
Three of their guards were dead. Six more were in the hospital, one in critical condition. And then there were the two innocents Tanhauser had killed, because Riga had paused beside the wrong car. The store clerk. The victims at the Towers. The attempt on her own family. Her jaw set. Not everything was fixable.
“There’s video of Verdun shooting one of the guards,” Donovan said. “You’re in the clear, Riga. Tanhauser was in the nursery, and he had a knife on him.”
“In his pocket.”
“Pen was a witness—”
“Not to what I did.”
“It was self-defense,” he said.
Had it been? She saw him again, rising to one knee, lurching towards her. To regain his balance or to attack? She wasn’t sure.
The glass door scraped back, and Pen stuck her head out of the penthouse. “Can I join you?”
“Of course,” Donovan said.
She sidled onto the balcony. Her shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry.”
“You protected our children,” Riga said. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But Brigitte—”
“Was always more than her stone shell.” Riga swallowed, looked away.
“She sacrificed herself.”
“She was yours. She would have done anything to save you.”
Pen’s brow rumpled. “She didn’t do it for me. She was trying to save the twins. I’d gone downstairs for a book. Brigitte got to the nursery before I did.”
Tears heated the back of Riga’s eyes. “I didn’t know that.”
“I shouldn’t have left them—”
“Of course you should have,” Donovan said. “They were sleeping in their crib. Finally. You had the baby monitor. There was no reason for you not to step away.”
“The wards broke,” Pen said. “I could feel them. I ran upstairs, and he was there. Brigitte flew between him and the crib, and there was a sort of explosion. She was in pieces…” A sob tore from her throat. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“She’s not,” Riga said. “Not really.”
Pen dashed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I couldn’t do… I couldn’t do anything.”
“And then what happened?” Riga asked in a low voice. They’d already given their sanitized stories to the authorities. The truth would stay within their circle, and perhaps with Sheriff King. He’d woken from his coma the moment Tanhauser had died.
“And then I just… knew he wasn’t going to do that to me or the twins.” Bracing her elbows on her knees, she clutched her skull. “I let Brigitte die.”
“Weren’t you listening?” Riga said. “Brigitte is more than stone. I’m not convinced she’s gone.”
“She’s in pieces! We can’t just glue her back together.”
“Her spirit may have been tied to her stone form,” Riga said, “but the stone wasn’t Brigitte. She’s out there somewhere.”
Jack raised his head from Donovan’s chest, spotted Emma. Sighing, he relaxed, eyes closing.
“Brigitte told me you reminded her of her original maker,” Riga said. “If anyone can find her, you can.”
Pen shook her head. “You’re the metaphysical detective, not me.”
“Not after today. Brigitte was right. You’re better than me, Pen. Tanhauser couldn’t touch you.” The familiar had always been right.
“You banished his demon.”
“You could have done it, if you’d been trained. And I will train you, if you’re willing.”
“So Brigitte didn’t have to die,” Pen said bitterly. “I could have stopped him.”
“No, it wasn’t your job to stop him today,” Riga said. “Tanhauser belonged to me, my final case.”
Donovan frowned.
“I can’t…” Pen shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s your turn, if you want to take it. You said you felt you had a purpose. You’re right. You’re a metaphysical detective now, or maybe a hermetic detective. You seem to have an affinity for the practice.”
“Riga,” Donovan said, his voice low, “you don’t have to do this.”
Emma opened her eyes, closed them.
“Everything’s changed,” Riga said. “Vinnie told me that. So did Brigitte, but I didn’t understand what they meant. The magic won’t go away, but what I do with it is changing.” She smiled at her sleeping daughter. “I thought I wanted to stay in the game, but my most important clients are right here. It’s Pen’s time now, if she wants it.”
Her niece’s lips parted. �
��I want it. I mean… I do, but there’s so much I don’t know. And without Brigitte…”
Donovan looked at Riga. She nodded.
“You’ll stay with us as long as you like,” Donovan said. “But expect to get drafted into more babysitting.” Nose wrinkling, he rose. “And someone needs a change.” He walked into the penthouse with Jack.
“Do you really think we can get Brigitte back?” Pen asked.
“I know we can,” she lied. Riga wasn’t certain, but she understood the importance of hope. “It may take time, maybe years. You’ll have to find her, and that means learning to do the work without her support. But I think that’s part of the process, finding your own way. It was years into my magic before Brigitte and I found each other. You can do this, Pen. You’re ready.”
Pen bit her bottom lip. “The funny thing is, I think I am.”
Riga grimaced. “Emma’s diaper. I’ll be back.” She struggled to get off the chair. The twins were getting heavier.
She walked to the master bedroom, where Donovan had installed a crib. A low dresser had become the designated changing area. Light from the stone fireplace flickered on the wood-paneled walls.
Donovan leaned over the crib. Jack lay inside, grasping his father’s finger. Behind them, wide windows overlooked the lake, the full moon painting a platinum trail through the black water.
“It’s Emma’s turn,” Riga said, laying her on the changing mat. One hand on her daughter’s round stomach, she reached for the diapers. The bag was empty. “Donovan, can you grab a diaper for me?”
He came to her, diaper in hand. She reached for it, but he didn’t let go.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said.
“Are you kidding? Can’t you smell her?”
“I meant you don’t have to quit your job. You do understand we have guards at the house because of me, not you. I’m wealthy. Not everybody likes me.” He smiled, lopsided, and pulled her to him. “Shocking, I know.”
One hand on Emma, she rested her head against his chest, breathed in his woodsy scent. Jack’s talcum powder dusted his black shirt. “Donovan—”
“You knew the risks, and you married me anyway.”
“It wasn’t as tough a decision as it sounds.”
Emma kicked, and Riga pulled away from him, recalled to her duties.
“An old woman came to you for help,” Donovan said. “What else could you have done?”
“I could have said, no.”
“A lot of people would have been dead today if you had.”
“I know.” Could she have sacrificed them all for her children?
“There’s something you should know. About two minutes after that bomb was to go off, Senator Stile drove up in his motorcade.”
She stilled. “After the bomb was set to detonate.”
“After.”
“Sonofabitch.” Her lips flattened. “He knew.”
“Stile said he was delayed. He was supposed to be a speaker at the conference, but they had to stop for gas.”
“And since the bomb is at the bottom of the lake, no one will ever know what they tried to do.” He’d been willing to sacrifice his own wife and hundreds of others just to play the wronged hero. And he’d get away with it. A wave of heat rolled from her heart to her head.
Emma whimpered, and Riga tamped down her fury, smiled at her daughter.
“We know what happened,” Donovan said. “And the press received letters this afternoon from a group taking credit for a bombing at the Towers that didn’t happen. You told the police about Tanhauser’s confession.”
“It won’t go anywhere.” The authorities wouldn’t investigate something this politically radioactive.
“Maybe not, but Tanhauser’s attack has raised questions. Stile’s been tainted.”
She wanted to believe that, but she didn’t.
“Tell me why you’re quitting the work,” he said.
“In New Orleans, I thought I had it beaten, the effect blood magic has on me. But I didn’t. Every time I was near it, I wanted it.”
“Riga—”
“But not today. Not when our children were in danger. The demon hurt me, but it couldn’t touch me that way. I’m my best when I’m with them, and I never want to put them in that kind of danger again.”
“Life is a risk. That’s what makes it worthwhile. You won’t be able to shield them from everything.
“I know, but I have unique skills to get them through life. Who else is going to teach Jack to manage the in-between? Or Emma how to levitate objects?”
“And if someone else comes to you for help?”
She turned to Emma and got busy with the diaper. If someone else came? She had a niece to refer them to now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Brigitte hurt.
And that was strange.
She stumbled, her limbs twisting in the rubble, fell to the carpet.
Something pounded in her veins.
Blood.
She scrabbled, reaching. A chunk of stone feather scraped against her hand.
Her hand.
She studied the back of it, the chocolate-colored skin, the veins, the bones.
A hand. Fingers. Soft. Useless for tearing, clutching.
The stone fell from her hand, landed in a pool of red.
Blood.
She sniffed. Didn’t like its smell.
Strange.
Something had happened here. There’d been a man. No, more than a man, a demon. And people. Little people.
She wobbled to her feet.
Feet. Two arms. Two hands. Two feet.
And they were soft. Bare.
They hurt. She hurt.
Unsteady, she walked from the room.
Walked.
Brigitte looked over her shoulder. No wings. No wings!
She might have cried then.
She didn’t.
Across the hall, the bedroom door stood open. The carpet was soft here. No hard bits to dig into her feet and toes. Just thick, white carpet. And a bookcase. She stared at the books. There was something important behind them.
Brigitte shivered. Cold.
This was a new sensation too. Not liking it, she walked to the wooden closet doors, flimsy slats of wood. Slid the door open.
Clothing.
Brigitte smiled.
Whoever they belonged to had excellent taste.
<<<<>>>>
Books by Kirsten Weiss
Follow the links below for more information on each title and purchase links for all vendors.
The Witches of Doyle Series
Bound (Book 1) | Ground (Book 2) | Down (Book 3) | Spirit on Fire | Tales of the Rose Rabbit
Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Series
The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum | Pressed to Death
The Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Novels
The Metaphysical Detective | The Alchemical Detective | The Shamanic Detective | The Infernal Detective | The Elemental Detective | The Hoodoo Detective | The Hermetic Detective
The Mannequin Offensive
Sensibility Grey Steampunk Suspense
Steam and Sensibility | Of Mice and Mechanicals | A Midsummer Night’s Mechanical
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Thank you
Thanks to Elizabeth Barton, for her idea about the ward generator, and to Cassandra Mason for a mom’s perspective on the fun-fun-fun of vaccinations. And special thanks to OSSMC.org, for helping with my father while he was in care.
About the Author
Kirsten Weiss authors genre-bending stories of mystery, suspense, and enchantment.
She worked overseas for over fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone. Her experiences abroad not only gave her gli
mpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.
Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.
Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer reruns and drinking good wine.
You can connect with Kirsten through the social media sites below, and if the mood strikes you, send her an e-mail at [email protected].
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Copyright
Copyright ©2015 Kirsten Weiss. All rights reserved. This book and its contents are protected by U.S. copyright law and the laws of the nations in which it is published, sold, or distributed, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed, in whole or in part, without permission from the author and/or publisher, except as expressly permitted under United States Copyright Law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author and publisher
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites and their content.
misterio press / eBook edition October 2015
Cover image by Becky Scheel
ISBN-13: 978-0-9908864-4-0
ISBN-10: 0-9908864-4-1
Visit the author website: www.kirstenweiss.com
The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7) Page 21
