The Gargoyle Chronicles
Volume 1
By Kirsten Weiss
Books by Kirsten Weiss
Follow the links below for more information on each title and purchase links for all vendors.
Featured Book!
The Mannequin Offensive
Security consultant Rocky Bridges just wants to forget, but a Viking spirit won’t let her forgive.
The Witches of Doyle Series
Bound | Ground | Down | Witch | Spirit on Fire | Shaman’s Bane | Lone Wolf | Tales of the Rose Rabbit
Doyle Cozy Mystery Novels
At Wits’ End | Planet of the Grapes
Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum Series
The Perfectly Proper Paranormal Museum | Pressed to Death |Deja Moo
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
The Pie Town Cozy Mystery Series
The Quiche and the Dead |Bleeding Tarts
Sensibility Grey Steampunk Suspense
Steam and Sensibility | Of Mice and Mechanicals | A Midsummer Night’s Mechanical
The Battle of Winnemucca
“I may as well be standing outside a Walmart.” Riga growled, pacing beneath the amber streetlights.
A Buick roared past, and my mistress cursed, waving away the exhaust fumes hanging in the still, dry air. No fence guarded the graveyard from the street. No shrubbery softened the rows of tombstones. No shadows provided coverage for our stakeout. Light from the streetlamps seemed to flatten the graves, sloping down a low hill to the road, lit by hotel signs and fast-food restaurants.
“You would be more effective were you a gargoyle,” I said from my perch in the elm. The limb sagged beneath my claws. “And why have you interested yourself in petty crime?”
“Grave robbing is no petty crime.”
I ruffled my stone feathers. “Faugh! Likely some lunatic fancies himself an occultist. Or teenagers.” In my experience, there was little difference.
“Necromancy.”
“Death magic? There have been no murders or missing persons reported.”
She glanced up, and her eyes glinted violet. “Not reported, no. This is someone clever and dangerous—”
Footsteps padded towards us, and we stilled.
A scruffy human slouched to a stop in front of Riga. “Hey.” His tank top exposed tattooed shoulders – tigers and snakes and mythical beasts.
“Hey,” she said.
He cocked his head, lank hair spilling against his neck. “Spare any change?”
“No.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Please go away.”
He stared a moment longer, shrugged, and slunk down the sidewalk.
“And who is your client?” I asked her.
“A family’s offering a five-hundred-dollar reward.”
I sniffed. “This little adventure was not worth the drive to Winnemucca, not to mention your so-called motel.” I nodded toward the disreputable building across the street. Her husband, Monsieur Mosse, would never have stayed there. But she had been delighted by the motel’s convenient locale. “You grow paranoid. Necromancers?”
“Have you noticed how exposed this cemetery is?”
“How could I not?”
A van trundled into the Chic-King drive-through opposite. A giant glowing hen rotated atop its roof.
“The entire graveyard smells like chicken,” I continued. So tacky.
“Fried chicken.” Riga’s stomach rumbled. “If I was going to rob a cemetery, this is the last I’d pick. It’s brightly lit. Anyone driving past or looking out one of those hotel windows would see you. But there’ve been three desecrations in the last three months, all on nights with no moon.”
Like tonight. I sighed. “A necromancer then.” I nodded in the direction the tattooed man had wandered. “That beggar was lucky he encountered you rather than the dark magician. You will kill this necromancer?”
Riga said nothing.
“Faugh! Must we have this conversation again? The police cannot contain a necromancer.”
“You’re right.” Her voice hardened. “There’s no point rehashing this.”
I tucked my limestone wings closer. When my mistress grew stubborn, there was no changing her mind.
We waited another hour.
Footsteps approached, echoing in the stagnant night air.
Riga shivered. “Do you feel that?”
A woman walked a chihuahua down the sidewalk. The dog yipped, straining on its pink leash toward my mistress. The dogwalker shot Riga a curious glance and sped her pace, continuing down the street.
Riga’s shoulders relaxed.
The air molecules seemed to compress, to cool.
My feathers twitched. “Riga . . .”
“I feel it too.”
A masculine figure in rough, Civil-War-era garb coalesced before her. He tugged his shaggy beard. “You here to get my hand back?”
“Your . . .” She looked down. The ghost’s left sleeve ended in nothing. “I’m here to catch the graverobber.”
The ghost flicked his gaze toward me, and an icy draught ruffled my feathers. “He took my damn hand.” The spirit brandished his damaged arm. “I want it back.”
The air rippled with jagged, angry energy.
“He?” Riga leaned closer. “You saw the vandal?”
“’Course I did.”
“What did he look like?”
“Looked like a damned hand thief. Everyone’s worried they’ll be next. Took Nellie’s skull.”
Riga scanned the cemetery. “That’s what we’re feeling, energy of the disturbed dead.”
“Damn right we’re disturbed,” he said. “Wouldn’t you be?”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
I leaned closer, and my branch curved downward, leaves fluttering to the balding lawn.
“I’m Hank Rendell. Now, what are you going to do about this here hand thief?”
“Break his magic circle, interfere with his spell. Whatever demon he’s summoning will take care of him.”
I clicked my beak. “How delicate a euphemism.” My mistress did not wish to think herself a killer. The demon would do her work for her. But her method was inefficient. She would then have to “take care of” the demon.
“Huh,” the ghost said. “And that’ll do it?”
Riga ignored me. “Yes. Arrogance is their fatal flaw. They never expect the demons to turn. Did you see what he did with your hand?”
“Put it in a circle.” The ghost’s luminescent glow shimmered, threatening to vanish. “Something bad happened. Can’t . . .” The spirit disappeared.
Nearby streetlamps dimmed and winked out.
An unnatural darkness, close and cloying, smothered the cemetery.
“Brigitte,” Riga said. “What can you see?”
“I see this will not end well.” I launched from my branch and the tree shuddered, swaying. High above the field of darkness I soared. A sphere of unearthly light illuminated a circle of tombstones. “He is here! Beside Monsieur Rendell’s tomb.”
My mistress fumbled through the graves and into the bubble of light.
The tattooed man stood outside a salt circle.
/> Riga extended her hand, and a wind arose, tossing her auburn hair. Branches groaned. Grains of salt drifted sideways.
Dismissive, the necromancer flicked his fingers toward my mistress.
Riga flew backward, skidding across the lawn. She thudded into a tombstone. Her head dropped to her chest. Riga lay still, and my stone heart gripped.
The wind died, the scent of sulfur filling the dead air. A smoky form materialized in the center of the circle. The smoke coiled, snakelike, and for a moment I froze, struck with fear.
Always, it was a gargoyle’s lot to save her mistress. Tucking my wings, I cannonballed downward. I struck the bubble of light and ricocheted into an elm.
Riga’s hand twitched.
My mistress was helpless before the coming demon. Never did she listen to me! I disentangled myself from the branches, knocking several to the ground, and flew again to the light.
I clawed at the magical barrier.
His back to Riga, the necromancer’s tiger tattoos paced across his skin.
Fingers trembling, my mistress traced a circle in the grass. “Hank Rendell,” she whispered. “I summon you.” Her hand fell limp to the lawn.
Hank’s ghost appeared and hovered above her crude circle.
She brushed her hand across the edge of the grass circle, blurring its edges.
The ghost stepped free.
Inside the circle, the demon formed smoky horns, arms, claws.
Sweat beaded Riga’s brow. “You can’t break the demon’s circle with your remaining hand,” she muttered to the ghost. Riga glanced at the magician. A coiling dragon tattoo appeared on his muscular back. “You’ll need to use a physical object, like a stick. Can you—?”
In a matter of moments, the spirit was at the edge of the demon’s circle. Hank flicked a branch across the salt.
The demon roared, soaring upward, shattering the sphere containing the necromancer’s magic into jagged prisms of fire.
“No! No!” The necromancer’s tattoos flew free and curled like burning paper on the grass.
The demon rampaged through the magician. His tattoos blackened and turned to ash. Shrieking, the necromancer collapsed to the ground, alive and stripped of his magic.
The demon winged across the street, sending a laundry truck careening into a lamp post.
Our battle raged. We fought the demon into a hotel swimming pool, swamping the patio in a tidal wave of beach chairs. We fought through a parking lot, denting cars and smashing windows.
Finally, we pursued it to the Chic-King.
The demon overturned a van in the drive-through and burst through a restaurant window, sending late-night patrons screaming in fright.
Riga and I trapped it in a bucket of wings and returned the demon to its home.
As I’d warned her, my mistress’s reward for turning over the befuddled grave robber and his ill-gotten bones did not cover the damages.
THE CHAOTIC DETECTIVE
It was not a comfortable silence.
The man shifted in the leather chair. He was powerfully built, and wore jeans and a button-up shirt that were clearly expensive, even as he rolled his shoulders and tugged at his cuffs as if they itched. Riga suspected he wasn’t used to awkward situations. Not with that five-thousand-dollar watch. Not with his aura of contained power. He was used to being in charge.
But she didn’t trust clients who were relaxed in a metaphysical detective's office. Comfort in this situation was not normal.
Riga leaned further back in her executive chair. Padded with buttery leather, it did not creak beneath her slim form.
Nothing creaked, groaned, or cracked in her modern new office, and this was a novelty for Riga. Artfully unfinished wood floors. Edison lights and leather chairs. Picture windows overlooking Lake Tahoe and a working fireplace made of river stones and a stone gargoyle on the mantel.
Her old space in San Francisco, with its view of the building next door, had suited her better. But after she’d moved to Tahoe, her husband, Donovan, had surprised her with this place for her birthday. She wished he hadn’t, though in fairness, she couldn't bring clients – or other things – to the home they shared.
She glanced across the desk at him now, seated beside the man. Donovan sat at ease, his long legs extended. His large hands dangled loose over the arms of his chair, and the collar of his button-up shirt was open. But his green eyes were somber, the only expression in his chiseled face.
She adjusted the cuff of her silk blouse. Why had he brought her this client? It was something else she wished he hadn’t done, and she smothered a sigh. But they hadn’t been married long. The two of them were still fumbling through this new business of sharing a life. And Donovan would have his reasons for bringing this man to her door.
Donovan's broad shoulders lifted beneath his Armani suit, as sinfully black as his hair.
“You look like that actress,” the man said abruptly.
She crossed her legs, the hems of her wide-legged slacks rustling. “So I’ve been told.” The gods were laughing. Riga Hayworth was the spitting image of Rita Hayworth. Wavy, auburn hair. Olive skin. Heart-shaped face. Fortunately, most people had forgotten the Golden Age of cinema.
His fingers tapped the arm of his chair. “Donovan tells me you're a metaphysical detective.”
“But he hasn't told me anything about you, Mr...?” She smiled, an expression that didn't reach Riga's eyes.
“Acton. Gabe Acton.”
Huh. “Of Acton Industries?” She tried not to be impressed, failed.
Gabe Acton nodded once.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Acton?” she asked.
The man glanced at Donovan.
Chagrined, she realized her mistake. He and Donovan were on a first-name basis. It was only natural she would be as well.
“Gabe,” he said. “Please.”
Donovan lifted himself from his chair. “I'll leave you two to talk.”
“No, it's all right,” Gabe said quickly. “Stay.”
Donovan sat.
“I suppose you're wondering why I might need a metaphysical detective,” Gabe continued. “In all honesty, I don't know that I do. But odd things have been happening, odd and... dangerous. Donovan thought your, er, perspective might be useful.”
Useful, not helpful. It was an interesting distinction, but not necessarily an insulting one. Riga nodded. “Go on.”
“It's no secret my company produces technology for the military,” he said.
Riga smiled. This time her eyes, an odd brown that looked violet in certain lights, crinkled. “But the tech you produce is highly secret.”
“Yes,” he said. “We take precautions. The Chinese have made several tries to steal it already. But we’ve ruled out spies, and our people have been carefully vetted.” Gabe stared at his tasseled loafers, and adjusted himself again in the leather chair. It shifted on the rough wood floor. “Which is why the accidents have been so difficult to credit.”
“Accidents?” Riga prompted, fingers twitching. Spies?
“We've traced the causes of each one. They were all down to natural causes, no hint of sabotage. A rodent chewing through a critical wire. A flawed component from another factory – one I don't own – that cracked under pressure. In any other situation, I'd write them off as a natural consequence of the experiments we're doing.”
He paused, staring again at his loafers.
Finally, Riga asked, “But?”
He raised his graying head. “But we've had twenty such accidents in the last week.”
“Well outside the bounds of probability,” Riga said, her gaze sharpening.
“A python escaped from a local pet store, made its way to our lab, and got inside the equipment.”
“That... doesn't sound good,” she said.
“The snake didn't like it much. And it wrecked the equipment and our experiment.”
“Has anyone been hurt?” she asked. �
��Besides the snake?”
“Nothing serious. Donovan told me you deal in probabilities, first causes.”
“It’s part of my method.” Her eyes narrowed. “Was that all Donovan told you?”
“He said you've dealt with people who can... do unusual things.”
And here it came. Riga steeled herself for the inevitable objections. But Donovan had brought him here. “And you suspect something supernatural is at work? That you've been cursed, for example?”
“No. No. Of course not.” His nose wrinkled. “That would be ridiculous.”
Donovan rolled his eyes, and Riga bit back a smile. Her teenage niece, Pen, had been having an effect on him.
“In your professional opinion,” Gabe said, “what are the possibilities?”
“Mundane sabotage that you simply haven't been able to trace back to the source is the most obvious,” she said.
He shook his head in one sharp, decisive motion. “No. The mil— we’ve cleared that possibility.”
The military had cleared it, he meant. “Then something not mundane,” she said.
“Such as?”
Now it was her turn to shrug. “I can’t say without seeing your lab.”
“Give me some examples.”
“A haunting, a curse, angry elementals, someone with exceptional abilities.” Who could cast a spell or curse.
“A haunting,” he said, voice hard and flat.
She sighed. And this was why Donovan introducing a client was awkward. People needed to come of their own accord. Her clients needed to be open to her methods. “Ghosts can be very irritating,” was her only response.
“Irritating?” Gabe’s hands clenched the arms of the leather chair. “It's been chaos!”
“But as I said, I'd have to inspect the premises to be sure,” she finished.
“Impossible. You'd need a security clearance.”
“Oh,” she said, “I have that.”
Donovan started. His handsome face quickly smoothed, the dark brows reverting to their usual position.
She repressed another smile. So, she could still surprise her husband. Good.
The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8) Page 1
