To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

“Oh, don’t get all broody now. What would Nigel do without you? Who would manage the club? And what about all your fans?” Michael shrugged. “What would I do without you?”

  “Well, it seems we accomplished nothing in this escapade, except to intimidate the one man who might have provided us with some useful information.”

  “I don’t know. I think we may have proven something else. Look over your shoulder.”

  Turning casually, Michael stiffened, gasped, and coughed again. “Clive. You little wanker.” He fought to catch his breath. “Stay right there. I want a fucking word.”

  ≈

  When Shannon dropped the bag of groceries on the kitchen floor, Maggie heard the eggs crack. Her mother’s amazement made her smile.

  “What on earth have you done to yourself?”

  “Isn’t it awesome?”

  “Awesome? Hair poker straight and black as the ace of spades? Holy God.” Shannon held the kitchen counter as if her knees were buckling. “And those nails.”

  Maggie held out her hands proudly. “Banshee Black.”

  “Who on earth did this to you?”

  “My friend, Alicia,” said Maggie. “She’s in the hairdressing program, so it was free. I love it.”

  “It’s grotesque.”

  “Yeah.” Using the kitchen window as a mirror, Maggie admired her violet lips. The shade was intense and far more sensual than black. Her smoky eyes, thickly lined in kohl mirrored Estrada’s. Contrasted with the white face powder, the effect was startling. She most definitely would not remind Dylan of his great-grandmother now.

  “And those clothes—”

  “Thrift store.”

  Remy was rooting around in the broken eggs, but Shannon didn’t notice. Standing, trembling, with a wide-mouthed stare on her face, she continued to shake her head. She surveyed the jagged side-slit dress, the ripped black leggings, skinny leather boots and tight leather jacket. And then she spied the silver pentacle that dangled between her daughter’s breasts like the devil’s mark. Her hands flew wild across her chest as she crossed herself.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Are you pierced and tattooed as well?” Maggie shook her head. Perhaps she’d gone too far too soon. “You’ll not set one foot out of this house looking like that!”

  “Witch,” said John, lunging into the kitchen. “Get Father Grace—”

  “Father Grace punched Bastian in the face.” She spoke slowly and emphatically so both her parents would understand. “He’s a jerk.”

  “Stop her before she gets in trouble like—”

  “John. Hush now. I’ll handle this.” Grasping his upper arm, Shannon ushered him into the living room. When she returned, she stared directly into Maggie’s eyes—it was her way of detecting deceit. Fortunately, Maggie was used to it and could outstare her mother, lie or not. “Tell me about this business with Bastian and Father Grace.”

  “When Bastian comes to work on Monday—if he comes—check out his face. I was here. I saw it. And Father Grace kneed him in the balls. Priest or not, he’s violent. You’re not really going to leave Dad with him now?”

  “He must have been provoked. He wouldn’t just—”

  “But he did, Shannon. Christ, you never listen to me.”

  “Ah, my head hurts. I can’t think. And don’t be calling me Shannon. I’m your mother.” She turned to the sink, filled a glass with water and swallowed two pain pills. “Now, go to your room and wash that paint off your face.”

  Ignoring her directive, Maggie opened the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of chocolate milk. Shannon counted out John’s evening pills, then walked into the living room. “It’s time for your meds,” she said, then stood and waited while he swallowed the lot. “I’ll make you a cup of tea. I need one myself.”

  Returning to the kitchen, she noticed Maggie. “I told you to go—”

  “I want to know what Dad meant.”

  “He meant nothing. The poor man doesn’t know what he’s saying ninety percent of the time.”

  “No. Somebody got in trouble. Who? What kind of trouble?”

  “Let it be, Margaret Mary. We’ve enough to deal with in the present without dredging up the past.”

  “So it’s true. Someone got in trouble. Tell me. If you don’t, I’ll ferret it out of Dad. You know I will.”

  “You leave your father alone. You’ve done enough to him already.”

  Pushing the one button she knew could devastate her daughter, Shannon invoked the whole tragedy yet again: John’s fall from the roof twelve years ago, his broken bloody head; silent vigils in the hospital where he laid comatose for weeks, wrapped in bandages, pale, shrunken and alien; and then at last, consciousness, and unending years of convalescence, doctors, home care workers, and guilt. Guilt piled on top of guilt. Maggie’s guilt. For it had all been Maggie’s fault and Shannon knew it and never let her forget it. In one moment, her world careened from innocence to tragedy.

  A horse had wandered into the yard—a beautiful white horse—and Maggie, only five at the time, was thrilled at the chance of seeing up close, the animals she worshipped from afar. Crawling beneath the creature, she hugged its front legs and tickled its chest; talking and laughing as it nuzzled her hair with its velvety lips, breathing hot horse breath against her eyelashes in big horse kisses.

  John, who was on the roof cleaning the eaves trough, saw her and panicked. When he bolted upright, he lost his balance and tumbled over the shingled incline. He hit his head on the ledge and again on a tree; then landed in the rock garden for the final assault. Skull fractured in several places, the impact damaged his brain. Maggie would never get the image of his broken blood-soaked head out of her own.

  The doctors said he was fortunate. He could have broken his neck and been left paralyzed. He could have died. When he finally regained consciousness, the doctors warned Shannon that a traumatic brain injury was complicated and he would be safer in an institution. She refused. They said he would probably never fully recover. He hadn’t. Nor had they.

  “I hate you.” Maggie said, waking from her reverie. “I will find out what you’re hiding, and when I do, I’ll leave here and never come back.”

  ≈

  “What did Sensara say?” Estrada had to shout over the tangled throng of ink, flesh, leather, and sweat that was Pegasus. The music, just before closing, escalated to such an orgiastic pitch, it obscured mortal language. In the blistering darkness, lips were judged on potential. Bodies sought bodies in a sea of pulsating preverbal libido, often uniting in a shattering climax without ever having left the dance floor. Estrada admired the primeval freedom of it all. Usually. Tonight was different.

  “She said, and I quote: ‘I’ve almost scraped the taste of burnt cinnamon off my tongue.’”

  Estrada bashed the top of the metal railing with his fist.

  Michael gestured to the black patch covering his left eye. “She slagged this too.”

  Estrada rolled his eyes. Clive had won some boxing title at Cambridge and unmasked that secret gem on Michael’s face. The only gain made from the brotherly confrontation was that Nigel had banned the little weasel from the club for the weekend. Though inadequate, it was something. Michael felt that the outcome was entirely positive. His pirate’s badge, and the shiner it hid, only added another element of danger to his sinister persona and he was getting more than his usual share of attention.

  Staring through his one red contact, he stroked his fang with his little finger. “Forget her, compadre. She’s much too weird.”

  Ironic, but true. In just a few weeks, Sensara had become the woman she detested, the woman she’d judged repulsive on countless occasions, the woman she’d vowed never to become. What intrigued Estrada was why. What had happened? Was she enchanted? Or could a kiss from him really turn a woman inside out?

  After sucking back another double tequila, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need to know why.”

  “Sorry compadre. I can’t help you there. I could,
however, conjure up something to allay the pain.”

  With a subtle signal, a slave boy emerged from the shadows, a white fragment tied loosely around his narrow hips. Michael kept several of them on payroll to keep patrons intoxicated and amused, whatever that involved. They were all of age and took Ancient Greek names. Dion offered them his wares on a thin silver tray.

  “No thanks, man. I’m not in the mood.” Waved off, Dion vanished.

  “Watch the blood clots then. I was feeling rather generous earlier.”

  “Why the fuck would you do that?” The thought of Sensara ingesting even a sip of Michael’s ecstatic blend was terrifying. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Not yet, but I feel it unravelling.” Reaching across the table, he ran his fingers through Estrada’s long wild hair. “Relax. You know it’s not for the plebeians.” But how could that be ensured in a place like this? “My, that’s a wicked look. Feel like blazing?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “She’s not up to this,” he yelled to Michael’s back. Scanning the crowd, he sought her out; then found her romancing some guy dressed in a hooded chain link shirt, long black tunic, and cape. Estrada scowled. He knew that game only too well: errant knight needs love. Why did beautiful women always fall for the lonely brooding bad boy?

  Words were exchanged, and then the man stood and followed Sensara toward the centre floor. Above them, Circe weaved on the stage, the three singers’ curves visible through pale diaphanous gowns. Crooning a sultry blues number, the harmonic trio funnelled their ardent voices into a slow deep throb.

  Damn her. Licking the salt from the rim of his glass, he downed another double tequila and bit the bitter lime.

  Bending together and bruising flesh amidst the glistening horde, Sensara and the knight danced. Surely, she knew he was watching, knew what it was doing to him. Mesmerized, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Like a great black thundercloud, his anger exploded around him, threatening to block out everything but its own existence. He realized that he must control it. Rage rendered him impotent and this man could be a killer.

  Closing his eyes to shut out the scene below, he focussed on slowing his breath. The invading tequila enhanced his imagination, and he visualized cutting through the darkness with a crystal sword that left only white light in its wake. Something had happened that night at Buntzen Lake. Sensara was not herself. She was under a spell, possibly even possessed. Every impulse told him so. He needed to get inside her head, the way she could get inside his.

  She had taught him a technique once, and they had practiced it repeatedly at Stanley Park. She laughed at each of his failed attempts to read her mind, so he kept trying, if only to amuse her, and after a while he prevailed. She would visualize a birthday cake blazing in candles and he would see it too, or a tall ship in full sail on the ocean, and they would share a euphoric moment.

  The trick was to clear the mind of all negative emotion—a formidable, but not impossible, task—and then focus only on the thoughts projected by the other. The more they laughed the lighter his vibration became and the more they connected. When for an instant he could feel everything that she was feeling and clearly see each image in her mind, he panicked, and the connection severed.

  Now, he determined to rekindle that state and engage long enough to understand what was happening to her. Uplifted with the memory, his vibration lightened. Closing his eyes, he merged his mind with hers, sharing images and sensations, rather than words.

  The stranger was tall, so tall she could barely reach his armpits. His hands felt cool against her hot bare skin; his rippling pecs hard against her cheek. Her fingers crawled beneath his cloak as she explored him, stroked his tight thighs and ass; and then reaching behind, she pulled him hard against her weaving belly.

  Motherfucker. Jealously claimed the magician and he opened his eyes. She wasn’t thinking about him at all. She was into this guy.

  The stranger stared up at him, noting his interest, and calling him out.

  I’ll fucking kill you, Estrada shot back. Slamming his right fist into his left palm, he shook it at the man. Let’s go. As they locked eyes, Estrada searched for the mind behind the Herculean body. But, in his present state, he could make no connection. The only thing he knew was that this knight was all about power and control. Some women hunted men like that, craving cold disconnected sex: no names, no ties, just a time out from the constant stress of running the show. But, surely not Sensara?

  Suddenly, she spun around. Had she seen something? Felt something? Did she sense his fears, or have fears of her own? He watched her slink through the crowd, watched as a slave boy manoeuvred by clutching a tray of blood clots, watched with horror as Sensara took a vial of the spiked juice in each hand and downed them before the boy could stop her.

  Estrada glared at Michael, who’d just returned and was tripping in his own psychedelic world. He had no choice. He couldn’t leave her now. Jesus, this bastard was likely the witch killer.

  He flew down the stairs and touched her shoulder. “Sara, we need to talk.” Flashing his biggest, most soulful eyes, he begged.

  Recognizing him, she glowered. “Fuck off, Estrada.”

  “Sensara, you’re in danger.” He grasped her arm.

  “Let go of me or I’ll scream.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Look at you.” He continued to hold her arm as she struggled against his grip. “What are you wearing?” She had always mocked the sexy corsets and bustiers women wore to the club, yet she was poured into a black snakeskin corset—it was unlaced to expose her breasts and barely covered her ass. She had tiny blonde braids threaded through her wild black hair, glittery lids, false eyelashes, and leopard boots that rode halfway up her thighs. “What’s happened to you?”

  “How dare you judge me? You and the E-vamp are the fucking rock stars of this show.”

  “Listen to me, Sensara. This place is dangerous and you’re not yourself. Please come with me.” Pleading was all he could do. “The blood clots—”

  “Don’t you get it? I’m tired of being myself. I want to lose myself. Isn’t that the whole point of this place?” She sighed and softened. “Isn’t that why you come here?”

  He folded her inside his cape, nuzzled his face into her neck and inhaled her sweet scent. She was still a goddess, even in her wretchedness…especially in her wretchedness. As memories enveloped him, he took her face in his hands and fought back the urge to kiss her again as he had that night in the forest.

  “Sara, I love the old you. And I miss you.”

  “I miss you too,” she said.

  “Then come with me. Don’t be angry at me.” Holding her face in his hand, he rubbed his cheek against hers and breathed in her ear. “I’m sorry I kissed you like that at the lake. I didn’t mean it—”

  “No, you never mean anything do you, Estrada? You just play games.” The muscles in her jaw tensed beneath his fingers as she clenched her teeth. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  Wrenching away, she edged her way back across the floor into the arms of the waiting knight, who cocked one eyebrow to Estrada in icy triumph and slid his hand up her thigh. Pretending to choke him with both hands, Estrada sent the threat careening across the room. With a smirk, the bastard bit her neck.

  Still, he couldn’t leave her alone. Not with him, and not with Michael’s special chemical blend percolating in her veins. He knew exactly what she would experience in a matter of minutes, had swallowed his own share of blood clots over the years. Worse still, she’d been drinking alcohol, and the combination would make her sick. Dangerously sick. So, he leaned against the wall and watched. And as Sensara’s world kaleidoscoped into a graphic novel, so did his. Dancers’ thoughts burst from their bodies, rising into the fog in fluorescent shapes, giant bubbles flashing and fading into the ethers. Laughing, she rubbed against them in a rush of love.

  He understood a neon high, relished the charade of omnipotence, the feeling of infal
libility, as the drug coursed through the brain, fucking with the pleasure centres. Simulated euphoria. Soon she’d want nothing but sex, as the world morphed into a sensational sea of love. And it wouldn’t matter where she was or who she was with. He had to move fast. The knight had sensed it too and was leading her away.

  Stumbling out through the gate, wobbling madly on her stiletto heels, Sensara clung to his arm, raving as visions capered through her mind. The image of Lady Macbeth, making thick her blood for the murderous calamity of the coming night, pierced Estrada’s psyche, and shivering, he padded after them.

  The alley behind Pegasus was typical of those in the inner city. Used mainly by delivery vans that supplied local businesses, it ran only one way—the opposite direction to which they were walking—its narrowness constricted by the overflowing garbage bins, painted in gang tags that lined both sides. How the garbage trucks ever made it past the bins and illegally parked vans was a mystery, and explained why they were constantly in a state of excess. Why the knight had chosen this alley, rather than the street as his escape route, concerned Estrada, and he loped along in the shadow of the bins, watching and waiting for the right moment to attack.

  Halfway down the alley, Sensara doubled over, clutching her stomach. Then, collapsing to her hands and knees, she retched. As the knight leaned over to grasp her shoulders, Estrada sprung from the shadows, launching himself through the air with a roundhouse kick. The force of the attack propelled the two men several feet down the alley. While the bastard was stunned by the assault, Estrada kicked again, catching his jaw with the heel of a boot. The knight flew backwards, hit the brick wall and gasped. Grasping him by the throat with one hand, Estrada punched again and again.

  Distracted by Sensara’s pathetic cry, he let loose his grip, and swung around. Another man had appeared. He’d bound her in a straitjacket with her hands tied across her chest, and held a syringe at her neck.

  Caught between them, Estrada yowled. And then his world dissolved in a brilliant fade to black.