4 The Infernal Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “The Sheriff wanted to keep me, but my lawyers can be very convincing. You say I attacked you. I say your photographer attacked me. ‘He said, she said,’ you see. The casino video tapes were rather… hazy.”

  She took another swallow of wine, wishing it were something stronger. “Are you going to make a point any time soon?”

  “There’s something I want you to see.” He pulled the scarlet handkerchief from the top pocket of his sports jacket and unfolded it neatly upon the bar, exposing a gold-backed tarot card, face down. “Can you guess what it is?”

  “It’s a tarot card.”

  “But which one?”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  He slowly shook his head. “You disappoint me.”

  “Join the club.” She disappointed herself.

  He turned the card over. The high priestess.

  “Do you know what this means?” he asked.

  “Hidden knowledge. If you’re looking for a reading, I charge two hundred bucks an hour.” She didn’t do readings. The rate she quoted usually scared people off. “Not that it matters. I wouldn’t touch your money.”

  “Do you know what this card means to me?”

  “A better question is, do I care?” She sipped the wine, heart thundering in her chest. Did he see the tremor in her hands?

  If she’d kept her keys, she could have driven them into his eyes. The curse of twenty-twenty hindsight. The wine bottle glinted green beneath the dim lights, heavy enough to put a dent in Vasily’s skull. She reached for it and topped off her glass, moved it close to where her left hand rested.

  “A woman I trust, who I have great respect for, gave this to me. This card represents my destiny.”

  “Inner wisdom is your destiny?” Riga’s lip curled. “Your seer needs a new pair of glasses.”

  “Now you’re being willfully stupid.”

  “All right, genius. What do you think it means?”

  He pointed a narrow finger at her chest, and with the tip of it, picked up a lock of her hair. “You are my destiny.”

  She jerked away. “Sounds like a bad greeting card.” If he really believed this, it might explain things… But not his attack on her in the casino. “And your fortune teller thinks I’m it?”

  “She has saved me from more missteps than I can count. You know there are women of power, women who can see. You are one, yourself. Why do you doubt?”

  “Just because there are people who can see, doesn’t mean yours can.” And Riga sure as hell couldn’t.

  “But she does. She proves it to me regularly.”

  “So what does this have to do with pissing off Donovan?”

  He leaned back in his bar stool. “Ah, the ever present Donovan Mosse. What do you see in him?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Perhaps you are afraid to admit you’re seeing more in him than is there? Or maybe… you haven’t seen enough? Your engagement is quite short. How do you know he is the man you think?”

  She smiled crookedly. Because that was the joke. Donovan had changed bodies and he was still Donovan – cocksure and charming, fearless and focused. She was the one with the secret, the one who’d changed. “Trying to plant doubts in my head? How naive do you think I am?”

  “Naive enough to sit alone in a bar, vulnerable. Why would you do that?”

  “Because I want to be alone. What does it take to get that through your skull?”

  “On the whole, I think I should stay, since the stalwart Mr. Mosse is not here for your protection. He wasn’t very quick to save you in the casino, was he? All those video cameras and he didn’t see you. I find that strange.”

  She turned toward him, her left hand stretching behind her. Riga’s fingertips brushed the cool glass of the wine bottle. “You’re boring me, Vasily. Say what you want to say, and get out.”

  A hand clapped her on the shoulder, and she flinched.

  “Hi, Riga,” Jordan McCall boomed, tipping his cowboy hat. “Is this a private party or can I join?”

  Vasily scowled. “It’s private.”

  “A whole bottle and you’re the only one drinking?” Jordan shoehorned himself between Riga and Vasily, leaned his leather-clad elbow on the bar. “You’re too pretty to be drowning your sorrows in a bar, Riga. Folks are worried about you. Let’s get out of here.”

  Vasily stood. “I said—”

  Jordan turned and put a meaty hand on the mobster’s chest. “I heard what you said. I just wasn’t listening.”

  Riga slithered from the bar stool. “I’d say we were finished, Vasily, but we never really got started.” She rapped on the bar. “Keys?”

  The barkeep materialized from behind a doorway. Jordan held his hand out, and the bartender dropped the keys into his open palm.

  The bartender’s eyes flickered. “Hey, aren’t you…?”

  Jordan grinned, threw his arm loosely around Riga’s shoulder. “Yep. I’m Johnny Damn Cash.” He escorted her into the night.

  She shivered, and pulled her pea coat tighter. “Please tell me you weren’t sent to find me.”

  “Nah. But I did run into Pen and she said she was looking for you. Who was that creep in the bar?”

  “Local crook.” She slipped on a patch of ice and he caught her by the elbow.

  “Want me to punch him for you?”

  She sighed. “No, thanks.” Though it was a nice fantasy.

  He led her to a red SUV, and helped her inside. She rubbed her hands together to warm them. It was nearly as cold as outside, her breath ghosting the air.

  Jordan got into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut. “Where to?”

  “The house, I guess.”

  He started the car, and drove slowly out of the gravel lot. “You guess? You and Donovan have a fight?”

  “No. I just wanted some space.”

  “Wedding jitters?”

  “Something like that.”

  The SUV’s headlights illuminated the snow-covered trees. They flashed past, a dizzying chiaroscuro.

  “It makes you wonder,” Jordan said. Taillights glowed red in front of them and he pressed the brakes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wonder if you’re big enough.” The singer glanced at her. “Big enough to let someone in and hold them in your heart, big enough to forgive, big enough to accommodate their life and your own.”

  She leaned her head back against the seat. “Sounds like a country song. Yours?”

  “Huh. Maybe it ought to be.”

  Ten minutes later he dropped her off at the lake house, waiting until she’d shut the front door behind her before he drove off, tires crunching on the wet pavement.

  Pen skidded into the foyer. “Where have you been? Donovan’s been worried. I mean, the real Donovan.”

  “I’d better call him.” Riga walked to the kitchen, and dropped her bag on the marble counter. She rummaged through it for her cell phone then hesitated, unsure what number to call. Would Donovan’s father have his phone? Would the real Donovan be in his office? Finally, she tried his cell phone. To her relief, it was Donovan who picked up, and not his father.

  “Riga, is that you?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry I worried you.”

  “You’ve always been your own woman. Don’t apologize. But with Gregorovich on the loose, I’d like you to have a bodyguard.”

  “That’s not a bad idea.” She paused. “I ran into Vasily again. He’s… persistent.”

  Silence.

  “Donovan?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “No.” She braced one hip against the counter. “Jordan rescued me, drove me home. My Lincoln is still at the bar.”

  “Tell one of the guards. They’ll send someone to get it.”

  “Donovan, I still don’t know what Vasily wants.” There was more than a tarot card behind his obsession.

  “We’ll figure it out.” He paused. “I’m with your aunts at the penthouse. They’re trying something new.”
<
br />   She bit back a remark. Donovan had to try. But she didn’t trust her aunts, wasn’t sure she believed their story about a black lodge. She’d read about them – secret societies of black magicians – but had thought they were a thing of the past. A myth. An excuse?

  Her aunts were getting older. Perhaps their focus wasn’t as good as it had been, perhaps their judgment was suffering. On the other hand, someone who knew dark magic had put a poppet beneath her bed. Someone was exerting a malign influence on her guests. And her visions… The monastery, the stone castle, the old man in the apartment who’d roughly thrust her away… She rubbed her chest at the memory. Her visions indicated several people in different places, working together.

  She shook her head. Keep an open mind, and see where the possibilities lead.

  “Be careful, Donovan. I can’t guarantee my aunts’ magic.”

  He laughed. “After what happened last time, I wouldn’t expect it. Listen… I’m going to stay at the penthouse tonight. Dad will as well. Staying put is the safest way to avoid being seen like… this.”

  “Curse your logical mind.”

  “I don’t want to be apart from you. I love you, Riga.”

  Her throat clenched. “I love you, too. Sleep tight.” She hung up.

  Pen slung her army-green backpack onto the counter. “Sleep tight? What does that even mean?” She unbuckled her pack and drew out red-and-gold-wrapped cellophane bags, stacking them on the counter. “I got your bath salts, by the way. That chick at the fortune teller’s shack is a little spacey, but she packed them up in these cellophane bags for the guests.” She dug into the pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a receipt. “You owe me forty bucks.”

  “Forty… I gave you a hundred!”

  “Yeah, well, gift wrapping and angelica don’t come cheap. So what next? Do we cast a spell on the salts?”

  “No. That would cross the line, I think, into tricking people onto a magical path. The salts should be enough to break whatever’s attached to them.”

  Pen’s face fell. “Oh. Are you going to teach me some more protection spells?”

  “Definitely.” Riga pocketed one of the bags. “Would you mind taking them to the hotel? I’ll call the manager – he’ll make sure they’re left in the rooms of all the guests, with a note.”

  “Sure. And I’ve been doing some research on necromancy.” She pulled a colorful over-sized hardback out of her backpack and cracked it open so it lay flat. “There’s some really kick-ass stuff you can do with it.” She pointed to a parchment-colored page. “Check it out – Deathly Cold. You can, like, freeze people.”

  “Deathly…” Riga picked the book off the counter. Its cover was slick and smooth in her hands. On it, a woman menaced by a hoard of armed skeletons threatened to burst from her leather bikini. “What’s this?”

  “It’s part of a role playing game. The guys who write it really research their subject – they may not know how to really do magic, but their concepts are based in historical magic.”

  “A role playing game.” Riga shook her head. “You think this is some kind of joke?”

  “I thought it might help you get started with necromancy.”

  “I see. You think I should just whip up a zombie or two and that will solve all our problems.”

  “Well, you can try. You always told me that your best magic came from spells you made up yourself.”

  “Made up. Past tense. I don’t do necromancy.” And neither do you. She bit the words back, knowing they would only drive Pen into trying necromancy on for size.

  “Why?” Pen crossed her arms, her t-shirt riding up her slim belly.

  “Because I want to stay sane. Because I don’t like people getting murdered around me. Because I don’t want to have to bleed or kill for my magic to work.”

  “Dot and Peregrine do it. And they’re not crazy.”

  “Aren’t they? I’d like to think they’re just a few exits past eccentric. But it’s a good bet they’re no strangers to animal sacrifice.” Riga only hoped none of those animals were human.

  Pen blanched. “Animals?”

  “That’s the way it works, Pen.”

  “But… they seem so nice.”

  “I don’t know how my aunts managed to keep it together. There’s something to the power of three – maybe they kept each other in line. But it can’t have been an easy path. I don’t want that kind of magic, and I won’t take it up. It’s not worth the risk.”

  Pen gnawed her lower lip. “But they said you were a necromancer. It doesn’t sound like you’ve got a choice. And what about me? I can see the dead, too.”

  “There’s always a choice, Pen. Don’t settle for the magic of the grave.”

  “I don’t think you’re giving it a chance. The aunts said necromancy is your heritage.”

  Riga closed her eyes. Pen didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, because she hadn’t seen what Riga had seen. The madness. The sacrifices. The flames.

  Riga gave Pen a direct look. “There are people who practice original necromancy, using the spirits of the dead to divine the future. Mediumship, which you already can do, is a part of that tradition and there’s nothing wrong with it. Then there are the people who use the spirits of the dead to fuel their spells. That’s more of a gray area, but you’ve interacted with ghosts, would you use them against their will? Drain their energy? Take what you wanted from them just because you could?”

  Pen shook her head, subdued.

  “But the powers that the Aunts are conjuring are on a whole different level. They’re killing, Pen. And they’re bringing things into this world that don’t belong. I can’t follow that path, and I hope you don’t either.”

  She would be consumed.

  Chapter 12

  Riga worked at her desk in her hidden library, the remains of a fire warming her legs. On the mantel, a flame danced on a square candle, scenting the room with pumpkin. A branch tapped at her window, and she looked up. A storm was blowing in, scratching, rustling, hissing. Through the closed windows, the night was a black sheet, and she touched the strange, bent cross at her neck, then shook her head at the gesture. Superstition, Riga? Really?

  She stood and drew the curtains, sat back down, glanced at her watch. Nearly midnight.

  Rolling up the sleeves of her blouse, she returned her attention to the yellow pad on her desk, her to-do list scrawled at the top. Someone had killed the photographer – either a guest or staff. She’d let her friend, Cesar, deal with the staff for now. The guests would be in town until the wedding and then they’d be gone. She’d focus on them. There would be another dinner party tomorrow night, here at the house. It would be a good time and place to press people. Dora had fired the photographer, Briian had gotten into a punch-up with him, and the actress, Madison, also had seemed uncomfortable with Cam. Jordan had mentioned waiting for some pictures from the photographer. How well did they know each other?

  She tapped her pencil on the paper, staring until the words blurred. That left the day, tomorrow, to find out who was behind the magical attacks, who had put the poppet beneath her bed. Still, she didn’t move. Her thumb found the ring on her finger, rubbing it, a scab she couldn’t stop picking.

  After her wallow in self-pity, she was suffering from a shame hangover. She’d been self-absorbed, and had lashed out at Donovan. He was undead and all she’d been able to think about was being a necromancer. She tossed the pencil down, disgusted.

  Cam’s thumb drive lay on her desk, and she inserted it into her computer’s port. There was only one file on it. Riga clicked it open. Tiny pictures appeared on her computer screen. No surprise there. Cam was a photographer. She clicked on the first picture, enlarging it.

  “Whoa!” She flinched, turning her head. But it was too late, she’d seen. Annabelle Lee, eyes unfocused, wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, straddling a man who was definitely not her husband. Riga clicked hurriedly through the rest of the photos, an unwilling voyeur. They were all of Annabelle in
various states of compromise, stoned or drunk. Had the country star known they were being taken?

  Had Cam taken them? Were these the pictures Jordan had expected to get from Cam the night of the photographer’s death? Was Cam a blackmailer? It made a certain sense. As a member of the paparazzi, how many photos had he taken that celebrities wished he hadn’t? But if Jordan or Annabelle had killed Cam, they’d missed the pictures, tight in the pocket of the photographer’s jeans. Whether that signified innocence or sloppiness, Riga was unsure. And what did digital pictures mean these days? So Jordan got copies – that didn’t mean there weren’t others, stored in computer files, waiting to detonate.

  Wishing she had a delete key to erase the images in her head, Riga went to the bookshelf and pressed the green leather spine of The Tempest. There was a soft click, and the book, along with the false spines of five others, swung outward to reveal a safe. She whirled the old-fashioned lock, and opened the steel door, placing the drive inside. In the world of country music, the photos would be career-ending. Riga wouldn’t be the one to expose Annabelle – not for this. But she wasn’t willing to hand the drive over, either. Too many questions needed answers.

  She put her hand on the safe’s door, and froze, the metal cool against her hand.

  Something creaked in the room next door.

  A footstep. Soft. Stealthy.

  She bent her head and pulled in the energies from above and below, then sent her senses outward, tentative, exploring. The only magic she felt was her own.

  Wood scraping against wood, a drawer sliding open.

  Donovan and his father were staying at the penthouse that night.

  Ash, the bodyguard Donovan had sent to her, was downstairs with Pen. She knew Ash, trusted him. He was tough, and he’d keep Pen safe. And he wouldn’t sneak around Riga’s room.

  If she emerged from her library, she’d expose the secret room. She wasn’t willing to give it up.

  Riga reached into the safe, drew out her Kimber .45 and the full clip of ammo beside it, slid the clip into place.

  She shut the safe with her free hand. Heart racing, she tiptoed to the hidden door, and cocked her head, listening.