4 The Infernal Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “My car’s this way,” Terry said brightly, tilting her head toward the far end of the parking lot.

  “Great.” Riga walked in front of Terry, her heart slamming in her ribs. Lights cast amber cones across snow-covered cars, black pavement, slick and wet. Terry stopped beside a Volkswagen, unlocking the doors, putting the keys on the driver’s side roof. She edged around the car to the passenger side. “You drive. And if you try anything, I’ll shoot you.”

  “I won’t try anything.”

  “Good.”

  Riga fumbled the keys.

  “Let’s go,” Terry snapped.

  “I’m going.” She got in the car, slammed the door.

  Terry slid in beside her, back against the passenger door, gun trained on Riga. “Head east.”

  Riga started the car, and pulled from the lot onto the dark highway, sliding between an RV and a Prius. They drove, away from the city lights, twisted along the hilly lakeshore.

  “We’re going too slow,” Terry said. “Get around this RV.”

  “This isn’t a good time to pass.”

  “Do it!”

  Riga stepped on the gas, swerved around the camper, claiming the double yellow line for a path. Headlights flashed, illuminating the car interior. A horn blared. She wrenched the wheel right. They were around the camper, open road before them.

  Riga tried to slow the pounding of her heart. Terry wasn’t being smart – none of it had been smart – and she’d slip up. All Riga had to do was go along with it, and eventually she’d get her chance, get away.

  They drove through a rock tunnel and around a bend. The road climbed, winding, the lake a black pool beneath them on the moonless night.

  “I’m not a killer, Riga.”

  “I can see that.”

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  Riga didn’t respond, her hands tightening on the wheel.

  “I feel terrible about Madison,” Terry said. “No one feels worse than I do. It was an accident.”

  “I know.”

  “I thought of having an abortion to pay Cam back. Then he wouldn’t get anything. But you were right. I wanted this baby, too.” Her free hand crept to her stomach. “But I couldn’t let him get away with using me as his personal incubator. And he would have. If we’d gotten divorced, he still would have gotten partial custody, at least, would have gotten what he wanted. You can see I only had one choice.”

  “Right.”

  Terry gave a short laugh. “Monosyllables, Riga? You usually have more to say than that.”

  Riga slowed as they rounded a tight bend. “As a rule, if I don’t have anything to say, I don’t say anything.”

  “Then you’re not like most people. Though I knew that right off. I could see you didn’t really fit with the celebrity crowd. You’re an outsider, like me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “At first I thought you and Donovan… It seemed an odd pairing. But he’s his own man, isn’t he? He’ll play the celebrity card if it suits him, but he really doesn’t give a damn about that world. He’s got psychopathic tendencies. You don’t mind if I tell you this, do you?”

  Riga chanced a look at her. “Psychopathic? How do you figure?”

  “Well he’s got the traits. He’s ruthless, charming, focused, tough.”

  “And those are bad things?”

  “No, they’re very good things. But it just seemed to me that for him, it’s almost a game, you know? He slips in an out of the celebrity world into the normal world – the world you and I inhabit – so easily.”

  A car crested the hill, its lights blinding.

  Riga squinted, focused on the white line on the side of the road. “You think Donovan’s a psychopath.” Great. Diagnostic advice from the mentally unhinged.

  “No, I think he has psychopathic traits. There’s a difference. He’s obviously functional.”

  “I’d rather not talk about Donovan, if you don’t mind.” Riga tightened her lips.

  “I don’t mind.” Terry sighed. “At least he’s not gay. Pull over here.”

  Riga drove into a scenic overlook, devoid of cars this time of night. She pulled into a space facing the lake. It was black, so black, and Riga remembered today was the winter solstice. The lake spread before her, a Rorschach blot studded with diamonds about the edges. Even in darkness it was beautiful, peaceful. It wasn’t a bad place to die, but she’d be leaving Donovan in jail, in a dead man’s body. Her throat closed. The stars arced above her, the Milky Way a brilliant path.

  “Leave the keys in the ignition. Get out.”

  Riga stepped out of the car, closed the door. There had to be something she could say, could do, to survive.

  “Walk to the stone barrier. Face the lake.”

  Riga walked backward, the Volkswagon headlights blinding her. She wasn’t going to make it easy for Terry, would force her to look Riga in the eyes before she pulled the trigger. She stumbled over the sidewalk ledge in the darkness, knew a low stone wall wasn’t far behind her. The hill was steep, but if she leapt over it, didn’t crack her head on a rock, didn’t impale herself on a branch, she’d be free, could walk for help. If.

  Riga’s heel bumped the stone wall. She tensed.

  The Volkswagen’s engine revved.

  “I’m not a killer, Riga,” Terry called through the open window. “Remember that.”

  The Volkswagen backed away, drove off.

  Terry was gone.

  Riga’s legs folded, and she collapsed on the stone wall behind her, put her head between her knees. God. Thank you. Thank you. She hadn’t had to jump. She was alive.

  She raised her head. Her nose was running from the cold and she sniffed, rummaged in her pockets, found a crumpled tissue.

  Okay. Okay. She breathed heavily. She had no phone. She was miles from Stateline, from any city.

  A semi rumbled past on the highway. Riga stood. Her knees wobbled, but supported her. She walked through the deserted parking lot to the side of the highway, mashed through dirty snow.

  An SUV approached, its headlights illuminating her, stretching her shadow across the uneven clumps of snow and bare pavement.

  She held up her hand, and the SUV slowed, pulled to the side, its tires crunching in the snow. The passenger window glided down and she went to it, leaned in. Her luck was holding.

  At the steering wheel, Vasily grinned across the broad chest of a man in the passenger seat. “May I offer you a lift?”

  Riga exploded. “Fuck me! I can’t catch a fucking break tonight!” She stepped away, kicked the tire. “Fuck fuck fuck!”

  A bored expression crossed Vasily’s narrow face. “Just get in.”

  Riga’s hair stirred, as if in a breeze. “Stay away from me.”

  “I said, get in.” His voice hardened. He nodded to the man in the passenger’s seat, who unbuckled his belt.

  She raised her hand, a dark wave of rage flowing through her, wild, unreasoning. Riga screamed. “Get away from me!”

  Energy pulled from the in-between, surged down her arm, through her hand. The SUV blasted sideways, went airborne, landed, rolled once, twice. It teetered on two wheels, undecided, then fell hard on all fours, bouncing on the highway’s opposite shoulder. Its headlights flickered, went out.

  Riga panted, wide eyed. “Holy...” Had she…? She put a hand to her mouth. What had she done? How had she done it? She took a step toward the SUV. Stopped, one foot raised. She lowered it, stepped back. No. She didn’t want to know.

  Another car crested the ridge, bore down on her. She waved, and the car – a station wagon – slowed, stopped.

  A window creaked down and a woman with gray pin curls stuck her head out. “Hello, dear. Are you in need of assistance?”

  “I…” Riga cleared her throat. Across the highway the stalled SUV was a faint outline in the darkness. There was no sign of life. “Yes. My car… I’m headed to Stateline. Can I get a lift?”

  “We don’t normally pick up hitchhikers, but you look like a n
ice girl. Of course you can.” The woman reached around and unlocked the back door.

  Riga got in, and was promptly engulfed in dog.

  “Lady, get down,” the man behind the wheel barked.

  Riga shrank in her seat, and the Collie sat, panting.

  The man laughed, straightening his checked cap. “Sorry, miss. That’s the dog’s name, Lady.”

  “She doesn’t always act like one,” the woman beside him said tartly. “Though I suppose we all have our days.”

  Weakly, Riga nodded, looking away from the lifeless SUV as they passed. The Collie laid its head across her lap, its brown eyes hopeful, and Riga scratched behind its ears.

  The woman turned in her seat to look at her. “My name’s Dana, and this is my husband, Roy.”

  “I’m Riga. Riga Hayworth.”

  Dana tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe it’s the darkness, but has anyone ever told you that you look like that actress, Rita Hayworth?”

  Riga nodded, her heart pounding double-time. “Frequently.”

  Dana smiled. “It’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”

  Chapter 32

  At the desk in the penthouse study, Riga turned in her seat, receiver pressed to her ear, listening. Dana and Roy hadn’t had a cell phone, so Riga had waited until they’d dropped her off at the casino before calling the Sheriff.

  Embers glowed in the fireplace. The couch and chairs were shoved aside, pressed up against the walls, the carpet rolled back. Peregrine knelt on the wood floor, putting the final touches on a blue chalk circle with arcane symbols in its borders.

  Brigitte sat on the window ledge, the night sky behind her. “You used magic tonight.”

  Riga pointed to the phone, and made a face at the gargoyle. Talking, she mouthed. “Last I saw Terry, Sheriff, she was headed east in a yellow Volkswagen.”

  A weighty pause. “That’s some story,” the Sheriff said.

  “And?”

  “And I’ll send some men over to search her room.”

  “You might want to talk to Barbara Yaganovich. That’s where Terry got the nicotine.”

  “The old hermit in the woods? Huh. You’ll need to come down to the station to give a statement.”

  Riga checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to midnight. “I’ll be there.” Later. She hung up, and pushed the chair back.

  Brigitte shuffled sideways on the ledge. “You left something out of your story to ze Sheriff. You used magic tonight. I can smell it on you.”

  “I had a run-in with Vasily Gregorovich.”

  “Ze monster?”

  “Yes, though I think you mean mobster.”

  “What happened?”

  “I lost my temper, rolled his car.”

  Dot crossed her arms over her ample chest, the sleeves of her black blouse dripping in graceful folds. “At least you made it back. You cut things awfully close, young lady.”

  “But I made it,” Riga said. “Where’s Mr. Mosse?”

  “Here.” Donovan’s father strode into the room, wearing Donovan’s trademark black suit and cowboy boots. “What do I need to do?”

  Peregrine stood, dusting chalk from the knees of her slim gray slacks. She glanced at Riga questioningly.

  Riga crossed the room to Donovan’s father, and took his hand. “I think the reason Peregrine and Dot have been having such a tough time getting you out of Donovan’s body is a part of you hasn’t wanted to leave.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ll do anything to get Donovan back.”

  “But you haunted the casino for a reason, and ghosts usually don’t cross over until they’ve accomplished their mission. I don’t think you’ve completed yours. Why did you stay all this time?”

  He sat on one of the chairs, angled awkwardly against the wall. “I wanted to be back in charge.”

  She perched on the arm of a nearby couch. “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked away. “My own ego, I suppose. I thought I could do it better. But I can’t. The world has changed, moved past me. My son’s built his own empire – Vegas, Macau. He had the vision to move overseas. I’m not sure I would have.”

  “He has a casino in Macau?” Riga shook her head. It wasn’t important. “And now? Are you ready to hand things back to Donovan?”

  He sighed. “It’s his casino now. I should have recognized that sooner. I’m ready.”

  Peregrine pointed toward the circle. “Then go to the center.” She came to stand beside Riga. “That was a pretty speech, but we still need a third necromancer. And though Dot’s been working all evening on the protection spells around this room, we can’t guarantee there’ll be no more interference.”

  “It’s okay. I’m the third.”

  “Riga, we told you, you’re no necromancer,” Peregrine said.

  “I am, just not like you. Livinia knew it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Dot said. “Livinia didn’t say anything to us.”

  “She didn’t get a chance,” Riga said. “You draw energy from death, but you’re really just using death as a conduit to tap into the in-between energy, because when something dies, it passes through that veil.”

  “So what are you suggesting?” Peregrine asked. “That you don’t need death to get to that energy?”

  “I can’t use death to get at it. It makes me sick. But lately, I’ve been able to pull directly from the in-between. That’s how I cast the spell that short-circuited our attackers last night.”

  “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Dot said.

  The gargoyle fluttered from her perch on the window ledge to the back of a leather couch. Her stone claws gouged the fine leather. “But I have. It is deep necromancy, and rare.”

  Dot twisted the folds of her black skirt in one hand. “Still, your magic’s been unstable. You said you lost your temper with Vasily – what exactly does that mean?”

  “It means I lost my temper. That won’t happen here.”

  “You don’t even know the spell we’re using.”

  “No,” Riga said. “What I’m proposing is an energy transfer spell. I’ll act as a battery, pull in the energy and pass it on to you to harness and use in your spell.”

  Dot narrowed her eyes. “Where did you find this spell?”

  Riga flushed. “It doesn’t matter. I can do it.” She’d found the name of the spell in Pen’s book, and had written her own. But it would work.

  Peregrine smoothed the front of her black turtleneck. “We don’t have a choice.”

  Dot rounded on her sister. “Yes, we do. We can wait until Riga’s had more time to practice, to stabilize her magic.”

  “No,” Riga said. “We don’t have time. Vasily should be down for the count tonight – it’s unlikely he’ll be able to rally his black lodge this time to interfere. We need to take advantage of this opportunity.”

  Dot peered at her over her spectacles. “What did you do to him?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Riga balled her hands into fists. “Tonight’s the winter solstice. Vasily’s out of the picture. Now’s the time.”

  “She’s right,” Peregrine said. “And midnight approaches. I won’t say it’s now or never, but now seems like a damned good time to try.”

  Dot sniffed. “It’s reckless—”

  “I trust Riga, and neither my son nor I were ever afraid of taking a risk,” Mr. Mosse said. “She’s right. Let’s do it.”

  Dot bowed her head. “Fine. I’ll call the circle.” She walked to the corners of the room, gesturing in the air and muttering incantations.

  Riga and Peregrine stood opposite each other. Peregrine held her arms out, palms up, and Riga mimicked her, closed her eyes, took a breath. She felt a hand press against hers and Riga shifted to the left, found Peregrine’s palm, completing the circuit. A crackle of energy flowed through them, sealing the circle, Donovan’s father in the center.

  Peregrine and Dot chanted.

  Riga let the words flow through her, attending to them and letting them fall
away. She focused on her own center. That still point was there, somewhere. And all she had to do was breathe.

  The world dropped away. Riga remained a part of their circle, everywhere and nowhere, in between. The energy flowed through her, cool and dark, hot and light, there and not there. She let it fill her, and sent it out through her palms to her aunts.

  The chanting grew louder.

  Her hair stirred as if tossed by a breeze.

  The energy coursed through her, until she couldn’t tell where it began and where she ended. Her skin fell away, the barrier between her and everything gone. She was in between, and Donovan was there and his parents – both of them – and all those who had gone before and were living now. The in-between touched everything and she was losing herself. Alarm beat through her heart. The energy dropped and she pushed past the fear, embraced that strange, dissolving energy. It swamped her and she was gone again. She was nothing but lost and there was no return and she couldn’t remember why she’d begun this journey, who she was, what was happening.

  A scent, a memory. Forests, ancient, deadly. Teeth and claws. Donovan. He was there, a part of it all, grounding her.

  A snap, a bending of reality, the circle broke.

  Riga swayed, opened her eyes.

  He stood in the circle, looking… exactly the same.

  “Oh, no,” Peregrine said.

  Dot’s voice trembled. “Mr… Did we…?”

  “Ladies,” he said. “It’s about time.”

  Riga’s lips parted. “Donovan?”

  She stepped into his arms. It was him, the real Donovan. Steady and strong, his heartbeat thudded against her chest. He was here, he was back, he was hers.

  Chapter 33

  “You didn’t kill him.” Barbara Yaganovich leaned in the open doorway of the church. Wisps of hair fluttered from her long white braid, and she clutched an old knit shawl about her shoulders.

  Riga adjusted the train of her wedding gown. “No. Unlike Vasily, that’s not how I take care of my problems.”

  “This isn’t over.” She stabbed a crooked finger at Riga. “Death follows you.”