Short shook his head. “Or maybe your niece set the fire, panicked, and ran off.”
“Someone has been trying very hard to kill my wife,” Donovan said. “Whether it's the same person who killed the occultists or not, Penelope's disappearance is suspicious.”
Short snapped his notebook shut. “What's suspicious is that you two are always on the scene.”
“You invited Riga on the scene,” Donovan said.
“Yeah,” Long said, “after you approached us. Convenient. It's time we move this talk to the station.”
“I didn't approach you,” Riga said. “My field producer did.”
“Same difference.”
“You're missing the big picture. Someone's kidnapped Pen, and we need to find her before...” Riga pushed that thought away. If Pen had been taken, they'd keep her alive until they had what they wanted from Riga. They had to. And Pen might be safe and free. Maybe she'd been scared off by the detective. Maybe she was on the run like before, in which case she'd call her mother, like she had in the past.
“If that's true,” Short said, “then it's in your niece’s best interests for you to tell us everything you know.”
“I have told you,” Riga said. “And every minute we waste here talking is a minute Pen gets further away.” They had to go, to find her. She blinked rapidly, leg muscles tightening, ready to flee. Doors began to slide, and that sense of something pulling, tugging at her.
Donovan placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
Her heart lurched, the doors swinging shut.
“The sooner we do this,” Donovan said, “the sooner we'll be able to get out of here. The police have more resources to find her.”
She swallowed. “Fine.”
Jaw tight, Riga handed the dog’s leash to Ash. She rode to the police station, her hand twined in Donovan's.
“We'll find Pen,” he said in a low voice. “The investigative firm has already begun to search.”
Mouth dry, she shook her head. He was trying to comfort her, but it was a promise he couldn't make.
The interviews were held in separate rooms, and they were long. Too long. When she was finally freed, she burst from the police station, fists clenching and unclenching, ready to rip someone's metaphysical head off.
Beneath a sullen, yellow street lamp, Donovan waited with Ash and the dog. Shouts and singing drifted from Bourbon Street, a few blocks over. She gulped, catching her breath in the oppressive humidity.
“Pen's hotel room was empty,” Donovan said.
Riga’s muscles weakened with relief.
“And the PI is still in a coma,” Donovan said.
“Christ.” Riga clawed a hand through her hair. She should care about the PI, but all she cared about was getting Pen back. And if he was unconscious, the PI was no help.
Oz leaned his bulk against her leg and looked up, his expression sorrowful. Absently, she scratched his head.
“The investigative company went through the footage from the hotel's security camera,” Ash said. “They didn't find anything, but they're emailing it to me.”
Riga nodded. Good. Then she'd get her own crack at it. Maybe she'd see something the investigators had missed.
“I've phoned Pen's mother.” Donovan watched her closely. “She hasn't heard from Pen, but she's reluctant to believe Pen's in any danger.”
Riga's shoulders jerked. “So she's not coming.” She should have been the one to call her sister, Rebecca. But she was glad Donovan had done it instead, and guilt prickled her soul.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Truthfully, I'm relieved. She'd get in the way.”
“I don't like this. If Pen was hiding from us, she'd be sure to let her mother know she was okay after that fire. Something's wrong.”
“We need additional resources,” Donovan said.
“You’re right.” It was time to bring in the big guns.
It was time to call her aunts.
Chapter 26
The stone walls surrounding Lafayette Cemetery No. 1 were felt rather than seen, fading into the night as if part of a cloak. And that, Riga realized, wasn't far from the mark. Her aunts had veiled the graveyard.
It was nearing midnight, and the windows of the Victorian homes in the Garden District were dark, the waning moon the barest fingernail in the sky. Voices and laughter poured from the cemetery.
Riga and Donovan walked along the uneven sidewalk to the open iron gates. Over his objections, Ash had remained at the hotel with the dog, reviewing the hotel video. Tonight was about magic. If Ash came, they'd be protecting him, not the other way around.
A man in a dark suit stood in front of the cemetery gates, his pale hands clasped. His stillness was unnatural, his skin a Plasticine sheen. Riga's skin crawled.
“You're tired,” the vampire said, “and there's nothing unusual here. Go home.”
A faint, lulling buzz passed over her, faded.
“Your mesmerism won't work with us,” Riga said. “We're invited.”
Donovan glanced at her, bemused. “Who are you...? Oh.”
She gave a slight shake of her head. “Vampires.”
A pulse beat in Donovan’s jaw.
The vampire started and bowed his head. “My apologies, sir, madam.” Stepping aside, he bowed them into the cemetery.
They passed through the gates, down a wide path and past crypts lining it like silent sentinels. Lanterns sat atop the crypts, their candles flickering. The vampires wore evening clothes – dark suits for the men and long, sweeping gowns for the women.
“I hear music, but don't see anyone.” Donovan asked. “Why haven't the police investigated the noise?”
“There's a veil over the cemetery, and the vampires must be hypnotizing people to forget anything's happening.” Or they'd paid off the cops.
“How many people don't I see?”
“Dozens.”
Murmuring, the vampires parted for them in receding waves. Their gazes burnt holes in Riga's skin.
“Can they hurt you?” Donovan asked.
“Let's not give them a reason to.”
Hands outstretched, Dot bobbed toward them, the skirt of her knee-length black dress swaying, jellyfish-like. A braid of silver hair coiled around her bun. Peregrine stalked in her wake, her black shoes gleaming.
“You made it!” Beaming, Dot turned her head toward her sister. “I told you they would be here before midnight. Oh, you do look handsome, Donovan. But Riga, I thought I told you to dress formally?”
“We need to talk,” Riga said.
Dot pressed the edge of a gnarled finger to her lips. “Of course. We haven't told you about your part in the ceremony. That's why we wanted you here early.”
“Forget the ceremony,” Riga snarled. “Something's happened to Pen. We think she's been taken.”
“Taken?” Peregrine's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Abducted,” Riga said. “Kidnapped. The detective watching her was spelled into a coma and someone set her hotel room on fire. She hasn't called her mother or anyone to let us know she's okay. And the Old Man knows she's my niece, threatened her—”
“Old man?” Marek appeared at Peregrine's side, and Riga blinked. She hadn't seen or heard him coming.
Donovan stared hard at her aunts. “Some local occultists have been involved in a sort of game with a necromancer — kill Riga or be killed. We're afraid either the Old Man or one of the occultists was involved in Pen's disappearance.”
Dot gasped. “Oh, good heavens! But the memorial—”
“Livinia knew where her priorities lay, in spite of what some may think.” Peregrine gave the vampire a pointed look and laid a claw-like hand on her sister's shoulder. “Living family first, sister. Carry on without us, Marek.”
She moved toward Riga, and the vampire stepped in front of her. “No.”
Peregrine reared back. “No?”
Marek's look grew predatory. “If necromancers are engaging in blood feuds in our city, it w
on't be long before vampires are dragged into the battle.”
“All the better reason for you to leave us to get on with it,” Peregrine snapped.
“I think not.” Something flickered in his expression, and there was a rushing sound, the flapping of wings. Something struck Riga's back, knocking the wind from her, sending her flying forward. Her shoulder slammed into a stone cross, cold and unforgiving. Pain shot through her. She drew a sharp breath. Iron-hard hands wrapped around her neck, squeezing. Fear knotted her mind.
Dot shouted.
Riga thrashed, tried to remember the in-between. Sparks floated before her eyes. Her vision tunneled to the stone cross, and the flowers carved in its center.
A trumpet-like bellow rang in her ears. The world vibrated, the stone crypts seeming to crumble. The pressure on her throat released. Gasping, she spun into a crouch, ready to strike.
Donovan knelt beside her. The vampires were gone.
“Riga!” His face creased with concern. “Are you all right?”
“What happened? Where are my aunts?”
“Right here, dear.” Rubbing her neck, Dot hobbled over. Hanks of silver hair streamed from her bun, which tilted at a precarious angle.
“Bloody vampires.” Peregrine harrumphed and stomped to them, brushing dirt and leaves from the front of her skirt. She tugged at her collar.
“They have no sense of perspective,” Dot said.
“What happened?” Riga asked. “Did you compel them to leave?”
“Didn't get a chance.” Peregrine's cheeks colored. “A hand was around my throat before I could say a word. Damned foolish of me, getting caught off guard. I told you we never should have trusted them. It was just like Prague in '72.”
“You're thinking of Berlin in '68,” Dot said.
“Prague. I distinctly remembered being threatened with defenestration—”
“Well, of course, defenestration in Prague,” Dot said. “But those were wraiths, not vampires. The vampires were definitely in Berlin.”
“Ladies.” Donovan hauled Riga to her feet. “I suggest we take this conversation elsewhere.”
“He's right,” Peregrine said. “Though later, young man, we will have a talk about what you did.”
“No,” he said. “We won't.” Arm firm around Riga's waist, he guided her out of the cemetery.
“What did you do?” Riga asked him in a low voice.
“Hell if I know. You fell — well, flew — to the ground, and I ran to you. That was all.”
Riga rubbed her neck. “Are you sure you didn't do or say anything?”
“I might have shouted your name, but as far as I could see, you and your aunts were the only ones in the cemetery.” His hands dropped to his sides. “There were never any vampires.”
Chapter 27
Handing the ladies inside the SUV, Donovan started the car. Riga twisted in her seat up front. Behind them, a young couple walked hand in hand along the cemetery walls, oblivious to the battle that had occurred.
“Now tell me what happened to Pen,” Peregrine commanded.
Riga did, and by the time she'd finished, they were back at Riga’s and Donovan's hotel.
He helped her aunts out, and together they herded the older women upstairs.
Patting his black, suit-jacket pockets for their key card, Donovan nodded to the sentries at the door.
“Well,” Dot said, “your problem is solved if you have Pen's necklace.”
“Maybe. I hope so,” Riga said.
Peregrine arched a brow. “But you also wonder if it wasn't left behind intentionally?”
Donovan opened the door and ushered them inside. The dog turned from its study of Brigitte, perched on the mantel, and bounded to Riga. She knelt and rubbed its back. It panted happily.
Ash rose from the table. A laptop computer lay open on it, the screen glowing. “I got nothing.”
“Hm,” Donovan said. “The PI firm didn't find anything on the hotel's security video either. Mind if I take a look at it?”
“Be my guest. Want me to take the dog for a walk?”
“You'd better,” Riga said. “He's got too much energy for this hotel room.”
Ash grabbed a leash from the table and whistled. The dog pranced to him, standing still while Ash attached the collar. The two left the room.
Brigitte stretched her wings and hopped to the floor. “At last! That creature would not stop drooling on me.”
“Have you adopted him?” Dot asked.
“No,” Riga said sharply.
The gargoyle sniffed. “Take in that slobbering beast? I think not. Now what has happened?”
Drawing the pendant from her pocket, Riga laid it on the table. Its chain pooled, the silvery charm glinting beneath the light from the ceiling lamp. Her aunts bent over it, and Riga updated the gargoyle.
Dot adjusted her glasses. “Yes, I sense Pen, and there's definitely something magical there. But I can't tell if it's the voodoo charm or something else left by Pen or your enemy.”
“A trap?” Riga asked.
“Which god did you say it was associated with?” Peregrine asked.
“I didn't,” Riga said. “But it corresponds with opportunity.” Which was why Pen had come to New Orleans. The opportunity to stretch her wings, to grow in her chosen career. Riga didn't regret trying to send her home. But she very much regretted the way it had been handled.
Donovan looked up from the computer. “Opportunity? Just a moment.” His fingers danced across the keys. “It could be Papa Legba. Do you mean to tell me that tourist charm actually works?”
Peregrine shrugged her bony shoulders. “With someone like Pen, who could channel the power, of course it works. The important thing is that Pen's essence is attached to the charm.”
“You said there might be a trap attached to it too.” Donovan furrowed his brow.
“Perhaps,” Dot said. “But our adversary didn't plan on Peregrine and I being here, and any little trap he's set is no match for the three of us.”
“Ah.” Donovan glanced at her aunts. “The three of you are going to do magic. Together.”
“No time like the present,” Peregrine said.
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I'll just stand over here.”
Rummaging in her bag, Riga drew out a cardboard box of salt.
Peregrine maneuvered an end table into an empty space. She laid Pen's charm on it.
Riga poured a salt circle around the end table, leaving space for her and the aunts to stand.
Peregrine extended her arms, palms up. “Ready?”
Riga grasped her aunts’ hands. They were cool and papery, more bone than flesh, and Riga felt the women's fragility. Her gut knotted. She'd always thought of them as tough old birds. Last year, however, one of the sisters had fallen. They weren't immortal.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
A pulse of warm energy entered her left hand, raced through her, tingling, and exited her right. The circle closed. Another pulse. And another. Faster and faster the current raced, until it was a solid circuit of magic, raising her energy, focusing her mind. Through her third eye she saw the pendant floating off the table, turning, the metal glinting. It caught the light, drawing her in. She meditated on Pen.
She more than loved her niece – she liked and admired the girl. While other kids played video games, she'd been making movies. She had drive, creativity, and passion, and if that passion sometimes overwhelmed, got her into trouble... Tears wet the corners of Riga's eyes. Pen. Where are you?
The pendant flashed, and she was flying. She climbed high above the French Quarter, the sounds of revelry and music and sirens growing faint. The dark and light resolved into a grid pattern of streets and buildings.
Something glinted to her right, and she focused on it. Pen.
Through the city twisted the Mississippi, a serpentine mirror. She brushed the top of a cloud, cold and damp, and shivered. Winding, sinuous, the river drew her. There was something about the
water – was that how Pen's kidnappers were keeping her hidden? Running water could block magic.
A figure shifted in the water. Midsection tightening, she sped downward. In the moonlight, the woman's figure was a wavering silhouette, hair drifting behind her like seaweed in the current.
She bit back a whimper of fear. Not Pen, drowned. And then she saw the curves, the heart-shaped face and auburn hair. Riga recoiled. The eyes opened, and she was looking at herself.
She spun away, lights of moon and stars and city flashing in a disorienting kaleidoscope. Closing her eyes, she swallowed the vomit rising in her throat.
The scrying wasn't working. She should have known it was a trap by the moon phase – tonight was nearly a new moon, but the moon in her vision was full, blazing, turning the water into a looking glass. Self-disgust heated her stomach.
Forcing herself to relax, she found her center, stilled the spinning world, and landed hard. She swayed, bones rattling, and opened her eyes.
She stood in the living room of their home at Tahoe. Rock walls merged with wood beams and a soaring ceiling. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace. High windows overlooked the lake and a mercury trail of moonlight.
Riga saw herself seated on a couch, leaning over the glass coffee table and flipping the pages of a home décor magazine, looking bored. Oz lay at her feet. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth had hardened, coarsened. A patch of gray streaked her hair at her temple – fashionable in a Bride-of-Frankenstein sort of way. Heavy rings flashed on her slim hands, and an expensive sweater was pulled tight around her waist.
And in a flash she knew.
She'd failed.
No Pen. No children of their own. It was just her, Donovan, and the dog, and she was guilty and bored and frustrated.
So was her husband. He wasn't here. Had been spending longer and longer nights at the casinos. When business was good he had to stay on top of things, and when it was bad he had to work harder. He would have been different with children to pour his passions into. But she'd waited too long, had made too many mistakes.
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