To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  “But I’m still a virgin,” she said, as the front door slammed for the second time that night. He left her feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life—even with a coven of witches in the next room.

  ≈

  As the bus trundled along, Maggie perseverated: first on Dr. Black’s instructions, and then on the whole situation. Primrose will meet you by the copper fountain in Eyre Square. They were running late—a full hour and twenty minutes late. What if this Primrose had given up and gone home? What if she couldn’t find Eyre Square or the copper fountain, or the bus broke down, or they hit one of the wandering sheep? Her stomach growled. She took a deep breath and tried to calm her anxiety by focussing on the myriad lights that twinkled in the darkening fields.

  The crazy old bus driver, who tackled the two-hour route from Shannon Airport to Galway City, came within inches of scraping everything he passed. The roads were half as wide while everyone drove twice as fast, and on the wrong side of the road. Several people who boarded along the route were regulars who said, “Afternoon Malachy” to the driver. He winked and nodded in return, then said, “God Bless” to each soul who disembarked. She remembered reading in Yeats’ Celtic Twilight that saying, “God Bless” to someone would keep the faeries at bay. This seemed ironic coming from a man who appeared more fey than human.

  As another branch scratched the window beside her head, she caught herself asking for God’s blessing. It poured forth as a prayer; that, despite her recent angst with churchy things like wayward priests, gave her comfort. She prayed to arrive safely and for help in finding this new mysterious family. She prayed that Gabriel Grace would be caught, that she could return home, and that Dylan would no longer despise her. Finally, she prayed for her father, lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and her mother sitting faithfully by his side. Would he ever wake up? And if he did, would it only mean more pain for him, more loss of his faculties, and more worry for her mother? Would it be better for him, for them all, if he—

  The bus driver blasted the radio suddenly, wrenching her from her thought. She glanced up to find him staring directly at her through the rear-view mirror with the queerest expression on his face. Could he read her mind? Maggie shivered. She’d taken the seat directly behind him—needing to feel connected to someone in this strange land—so could see his reflection clearly. His skin was as weathered as tree bark, and he winked oddly and frequently—cocking his head to the right and closing his right eye, while the other half of his face twitched upwards. This tick or wink squeezed the leathery skin of his right cheek into one small puffy pouch that resembled a walnut shell.

  In between these episodes, he jabbered along with the DJ on the Irish radio station, who spoke entirely in Irish, and played what could only be the traditional music her mother mentioned. Accordions and fiddles and flutes flew through fluid melodies and rhythms that made her want to both dance and cry simultaneously. Taking Shannon’s crumpled letter from her pocket, she read it yet again.

  My father’s name is Padraig (that’s pronounced Poe-rig) Vallely, but everyone calls him Paddy Vale. He plays the fiddle and is a well-known trad player. My folks move around, but if you ask any of the trad musicians in any of the pubs, they’ll know where to find him.

  Paddy Vallely, the travelling fiddler, a leprechaun bus driver, and a father in Ireland. A real father who may or may not know she exists; a father who her mother neglected to name. Like all good Catholic girls, Shannon bore the sin of pregnancy alone. Maggie sighed. If Remy hadn’t run off into the forest chasing Dylan’s bagpipes; if she hadn’t wanted so much to be part of the coven; if she hadn’t flirted with a crazy priest—a thousand ifs led to this moment, this crossing of an ocean of lives.

  Seeing a turnoff for Thoor Ballylee, the medieval Norman castle once owned by William Butler Yeats, Maggie was struck by an epiphany: she really was in Ireland, the land of The Celtic Twilight, of poets and priests, of faeries and famine. Hadn’t she just read several of Yeats’ poems in literature class? Now she was whizzing past places the man had lived and written, breathed and loved. Was her life nothing but a bizarre series of coincidences?

  “Turning and turning in the widening gyre, things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,” he prophesied in “The Second Coming,” and now the frantic spiralling of Yeats’ gyre had brought her to this place in this moment. There was nothing to do but breathe and allow fate to unfold.

  She tucked her mother’s letter back in her bag and grasped Estrada’s gift. Opening the book, she reread what he’d written on the front cover: Like Yeats, I long to see faeries. If this book helps you find them, remember, I want to meet them too. Bendiciónes, Estrada.

  ≈

  “Here now. I’ll take that,” said Primrose, and grasping the handle of Maggie’s suitcase, she wheeled it off across the damp square. In skinny knee high boots of patterned lime and burgundy leather, with pointed toes and high sharp heels, her feet barely touched the sidewalk. Tucked inside were apricot tights and over top flew a gauzy gold-flecked skirt that shimmered as she danced along the cobbled street. Except for the tight burgundy leather jacket and orange crocheted cap she wore on her head, Primrose could have been a ballerina.

  In her dark gothic garb Maggie felt suddenly stodgy and drab. Desperately jet-lagged, she followed in the witch’s wake, grateful to dash along, stretch her cramped legs, and breathe in the fresh sea air after twenty hours of oxygen-deprived travel.

  “I’ve an errand to run, but we’ll get you settled first.”

  “Where?” yelled Maggie, looking in all directions as they careened along a narrow street flanked by vibrant two-story shops and pubs. Thank God, it was closed to cars. She was having enough trouble avoiding the pedestrians.

  “My flat of course. My mate’s a lad name of Kieran. He’s a chef and—” Maggie’s stomach growled loudly causing Primrose to stop so abruptly she crashed into her own suitcase. “Ah, you’re starved,” she said, and turned toward a quaint pub painted azure blue. The double wooden door had stained glass windows and was trimmed in scarlet red. Above it, a red sign said: THE QUAYS.

  “The Keys,” said Primrose, correcting Maggie, who had never uttered a sound.

  Did everyone in Ireland have access to her private thoughts? First the bus driver and now this fey witch? Still, it was both curious and exciting, and she wondered what these keys might open. Yeats wrote that red was the colour of magic. Magic. She took a deep breath and followed.

  Stepping through the portal of THE QUAYS was like plunging back through time. The pub was enormous and packed with people, all laughing and talking and drinking. It was nothing like she imagined: three floors joined by carved wooden staircases, gothic arches, and stained glass windows, even thick church pews, and over the enormous bar hung the steering wheel of a wooden sailing ship. Maggie, who had never been farther than Vancouver, stood momentarily stunned.

  “They went to France, packed up a Seventeenth century church, and rebuilt it here,” explained Primrose. “Well, go on then. Have a wander.”

  Trying to look casual, Maggie strolled through the pub admiring the beauty of the old wood against the spotlights, the shining glasses, and barrels of ale. The tall slanted pipes of a huge organ dominated the centre stage, and between the second and third floors, a naked man carved from wood and etched in spirals, crawled up the wall.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, when she returned to Primrose. “From the outside, you’d never believe it looked like this in here.”

  “Well, you can’t tell a book by its cover. Isn’t that the cliché?”

  Primrose whisked off her cap as they settled into one of the wooden snugs and Maggie was startled to see that her shaved head was tattooed in colourful swirling symbols. Seeing her fascination, Primrose bowed forward to reveal the heart of the design—an intricately patterned mandala etched on the top of her skull. Three violet trees with intertwining roots formed the centre, while their branches connected in a circular knot. Between the trees were coile
d spirals in emerald green. Another circle of knots wrapped around the first and split near the base of her skull into two trails that merged at the top of her spine.

  “That’s amazing. Does it go all the way down your back?”

  “Aye, and ends in a serpent’s tail. St. Patrick did not rid Éireann of all the snakes. A few of us survived.”

  Feeling a new kinship with the strange cryptic witch, Maggie pulled up the sleeve of her black shirt and displayed her rearing Celtic pony.

  “Ah, Maggie, that’s grand.”

  “All right girls?” asked a friendly server.

  “Just jet-lagged,” replied Maggie. “I’ve been travelling for—”

  Primrose giggled. “She’s only asking what you’d like.”

  “Oh. Is there a menu?” said Maggie, feeling her face flush. The waitress passed one over and chatted with Primrose while she scanned it. “I’ll have vegetable soup and brown bread.” She’d decided, during the long plane ride over the ocean, to become the kind of witch that did not eat animals.

  “Excellent choice,” said Primrose. “And I’ll have your strawberry cheesecake with extra cream. Cheers.”

  The woman smiled and nodded, then went on her way.

  “Your grandad’s a fiddler, Syl tells me.”

  “That’s right. His name is Paddy Vallely.”

  “Well, this is as good a place as any to start our search then. Tell me, how old are you?”

  “Almost eighteen.”

  “Just when’s your birthday?”

  “First of February. Why?” Primrose raised her eyebrows. “Oh, this is a pub,” Maggie said, suddenly realizing the problem. “She didn’t card me. Will they kick me out?”

  “Not yet, Cinderella. Not until nine. And you’ll see your share of pubs after I’ve secured the proper documentation.”

  As Maggie watched Primrose speak in her quick clipped way, the slender woman’s huge anime eyes changed from grey to blue to aqua, settling at last in a shade quite like green grapes. Maggie rubbed her eyes. Jet lag? But no. Like a chameleon, Primrose was taking on the emerald green hue of her tattoo. Then it wasn’t just her eyes, but also her fingernails, which had grown as long and tapered as willow leaves.

  12: Wild Imaginings

  “I’LL BE NEEDING A NAME AND PHOTO so I can get my man busy with that ID,” said Primrose.

  “Huh?” Maggie rubbed her eyes. She’d just stumbled out of bed to use the bathroom. Glancing at the clock on the stove she was startled to see 6:00. Barefoot and wrapped in a long emerald robe, Primrose was whisking around the kitchen, chopping fruit for a smoothie. Six a.m. Did the woman never sleep? They’d stayed up half the night eating their way through a tub of double-churned maple walnut ice cream while Maggie told her tale.

  “What name will you be using then? You can keep your legal name if you’re attached to it, or you can make up a whole new identity. It’s really up to yourself like.”

  “Can’t I get in trouble for using a fake ID?”

  “Depends who knows it’s fake.”

  “Look, I don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

  “Ah stop. You get kidnapped and almost raped by a maniacal priest, and you’re afraid to use a fake ID for a worthy cause?” She shook her head as if she couldn’t understand Maggie’s trepidation. “You do want to find your grandad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who’s a trad player?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the only way you’ll get into the pub at night is if you’re eighteen. Now a session doesn’t get going until at least ten, and wee seventeen-year-olds are expected to vacate by nine. That’s the law here and folks obey it. You could pretend to be eighteen and you might get away with it, but if they asked to see your ID, which a good bar man will, you’d be out on the street. No music. No grandad. So, you see, this is the most efficient means to an end.”

  As she talked, Primrose poured two cups of black tea from a pottery teapot and set out a pitcher of milk and a bowl of brown sugar. “Think of it so: you’re only stretching the truth by a few months, and in the end you’ll have your family.”

  “Oh fine. But if the police catch me, you better be there to bail me out. I don’t know anyone else in this country.” The thought was disconcerting.

  “Ah, the Gardai won’t bother you. It’s just a precaution really; something to flash the barman to ease his worries.”

  Maggie didn’t want to disrespect John Taylor, but she wanted a new name to go with her new self; even though, she didn’t really know who that was yet. “I like the sound of my grandfather’s last name. Vallely.”

  “Aye. It’s a real old Irish name and it suits you. So, Maggie Vallely then?”

  “Not Maggie. I want a name that means something—maybe a Wiccan name or a Celtic name. What does your name mean?”

  “It’s a flower.”

  “But it must mean something?”

  “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Didn’t I hear that somewhere?”

  “Shakespeare. Juliet says it.”

  “Right so. Well, the sooner you give me a name and photo, the sooner we can find your family. Ireland’s changed some since your ma’s time—influx of blow-ins. It may not be as easy as she thinks.”

  “I have my school photo,” Maggie said, reaching for her bag. “What name do you think I should use?”

  “Can’t help you there. A name’s personal, especially if you’re looking to use it for power. I will tell you this: traditional witches don’t write their names on their ID. They don’t even speak them aloud outside the coven.” Maggie looked downcast. “Still, if that’s what you’re after, you should know that a name like that only comes in a dream or a flash of knowing.” She stood and picked up her mug, then rinsed it and tipped it upside down in the rack. “I’ve errands to run now,” she said. “Perhaps you should consider what sort of witch you really are, inside like. Ask the spirits and listen for an answer.”

  “You think they’ll talk to me?”

  Primrose smiled. “You’ve got to know it’s you, not just say it’s you. Do you get my meaning?”

  “I do.” She sipped her tea and glanced at Primrose, who’d grabbed her bag, doffed her robe, and was halfway out the door wrapped in a deep purple shawl. “Wait! Are the shops open? How are you running errands at six a.m.?”

  “Who said it was six a.m.?”

  ≈

  Estrada pulled his Harley into the driveway and stopped.

  “Wow,” said Sensara, wrenching off her helmet. “Is this really where Michael Stryker lives?” With its wraparound porch, railed balconies, and slanted roofs, the West Vancouver mansion had a distinctly Gothic feel. “This must be worth millions. How can he afford this?”

  Estrada winked. “It belongs to his grandfather.” He pointed to a turreted tower shadowed by tall evergreens. “Michael lives there.”

  “Doesn’t grandad mind having a pleasure palace upstairs?”

  “Turns a blind eye to his grandson’s happiness, I suppose.” He didn’t intend to tell her that Nigel sometimes used the suite for his own pleasure when his wife travelled abroad. She’d despise the man before she’d even met him.

  “Happiness. Now there’s a euphemism.”

  He fought to ignore Sensara’s gibes about their lifestyle. It seemed the only way through her jealousy. It had become a constant irritation and made him wonder if she’d repressed a desire for him all the time they’d been friends. Sometimes a spell only amplifies or reveals that which is hidden.

  “Thanks again for offering to give Michael a healing,” he said.

  “I know what he means to you. I also know he had this coming. Karma is the inescapable dealer of justice.”

  “Be nice, Sensara. Use your power for good.”

  “Have I ever done otherwise?”

  “This way,” he said, grasping her hand. “Michael has a private entrance.”

  “Of course he does.” She halted in front of the heavy oak door. The top h
alf framed a stained glass window, a Gothic masterpiece of black swords and blood red teardrops edged in gold. “The man certainly has a fixation.”

  Estrada grinned and thought, you don’t know the half of it. He snatched a key from behind a low loose brick. “Ah good. Sometimes he remembers to leave it here and sometimes he doesn’t.” The door groaned open. As they ascended, the old oak stairs creaked beneath their feet.

  “No sneaking in here at night.”

  He felt her mood suddenly darken. Since they’d been spending copious hours together their connection had tightened. He could pick up the slightest shifts and wondered if she shared that same ability. She hadn’t mentioned their abduction since that night in the hospital.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “It just struck me that this was the last staircase she ever descended.”

  “Jade?”

  She nodded. “Her killer was likely waiting just outside; maybe on the street or in the shadows. Maybe even right where we came in.”

  “I’m glad that you believe Michael is innocent. As much as you despise his lifestyle, you know that there is no one with a greater heart.”

  “I know that you believe that and you seem to know him well…perhaps, a little too well.” Her final words bit, but he turned away and ignored them. Relieved to finally have her back, as his friend and now his lover, he hoped nothing else would go awry. Sensara was not the same woman he once knew; at least, he didn’t know her in the same way. Still he felt judged and confined. If only she would allow him his freedom. He wouldn’t love her any less—

  When she shoved him against the wall at the top of the stairs, he was startled.

  “Forget the past, Estrada. You’re mine now.” To seal her claim, she bit his neck.

  “Jesus, woman.” She ran her tongue over the bite, then caught his mouth with hers, kissing him deeply, wanting more, wanting him to take her right there on the landing. As uninhibited as she’d become, she still refused to have sex outside the flat. He wondered why the sudden change, but couldn’t think. Not now.