To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  Primrose laughed, her sparkling brown eyes half-filling her pixie face. But, hadn’t her eyes been green that first day on Shop Street, green as grapes? Maybe she wore coloured contacts like some of the girls at school, or then again, maybe—

  “Ah, you’re after knowing my secrets, are you, my man? Well, they wouldn’t be secrets long if I told them, would they?”

  Maggie examined the tattoo with fresh interest. She hadn’t noticed the tiny spirals and lightning bolts embedded in the dark tree branches, or speculated at all about what any of it could mean. Gazing at her own tattoo, the rearing Celtic horse, she realized it too had meaning. It was a source of strength and power, its amber eyes shining like fire.

  “Are you needing a place to sleep tonight, girls? The wife and I’ve a hideaway.”

  “Thanks anyway, Declan,” Maggie replied quickly. “We’re camping.” Now, that was something that would never happen in Vancouver—not so innocently at any rate.

  It was barely four miles to the village of Drumcliffe. All the while, Maggie could sense the dark hollow of the sea on her left, and off to her right the solid mass of a large mountain. In places, the highway was cinched still tighter by waist high rock walls, and once, when a huge truck barrelled by, she felt the wind pick them right up off the tarmac and for a fraction of a second they were airborne. Gasping, she closed her eyes and imagined them bashing into the side of the mountain.

  “Ben Bulben,” said Primrose, when they skidded to a stop in the gravel car park at Drumcliffe Cemetery. Maggie stared blankly. Her world was moving at light speed and sometimes she just could not keep up. “Ben means mountain,” Primrose explained, gesturing toward it. “That one’s Ben Bulben.”

  “Oh.” Maggie took off her helmet and ran her fingers through her hair as she tried to catch her breath. “Yeats mentioned Ben Bulben in—”

  “The book Estrada gave you.”

  “Yeah. There’s a white square near the top that’s said to be the door to Faerie. At night they ride out of there to kidnap babies and young brides.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not promised then,” said Primrose, as they unpacked the gear from the motorcycle. “Or, maybe you are. Anyone special in your life? Anyone you love?”

  “Not really,” said Maggie. She thought of Dylan and felt a pang of guilt.

  “Ah well, when you’re in love, you don’t think it, you feel it. Sometimes it creeps up on you, slow-like; other times, it hits you like a knife in the heart and takes your breath away. Either way, you’ll know when it’s got you—you’ll want to scream with the divine agony of it.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been there.”

  “Once, long ago, before this land was free. ‘Twas his blood that helped make it so.”

  “You mean in a past life?” She’d read that Ireland had been a free state since 1922. It took a civil war to make it happen.

  “Past. Present. Love’s eternal. Do you not listen to the radio?” Maggie laughed. “Don’t fret, pet. One day someone will take your breath away.” Primrose sighed, and then asked, “What about this Estrada? What’s his story?”

  “Estrada. Now there’s a man that can take your breath away. I don’t really know him, but on looks alone, he could beat out Taylor Lautner as Sexiest Man Alive.” Maggie tried to picture Estrada again the way she’d first seen him, tall and angular in his black robes, his inky hair falling in waves, but her daydream was interrupted by Primrose’s cackle. “What? Why are you laughing?”

  “I can think of a few contenders for that title that would leave young Taylor tramping in the dust.”

  “Oh, really. Like who?”

  “Stuart Townsend, Aidan Turner, Jamie Dornan—”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Ah well, I suppose I’m partial to the local lads.”

  “Well, Estrada could beat any of them. He’s just…he’s beautiful. I had this dream about him once. I felt safe, like nothing could ever harm me. Of course, he’s the high priest of Hollystone Coven and a magician, so—”

  “Sounds like a real god. So you do have someone special.”

  “No. I mean, he’s special, but he’s not mine. He’s with Sensara, the high priestess.”

  “Ah, I see. Priest and priestess. Good match then, are they?”

  Maggie shrugged. Maybe it was just jealousy, but from what she’d seen, they had a complicated relationship. “He sure was all over her the night before I left. Too bad. I think he’d be perfect for you. He just shaved his head too. His hair was so long it hung almost to his elbows, and then it was gone. Buzzed off.”

  “Is that so? Well, perhaps I’ll have a chance to meet this beautiful man one day and I can judge for myself.”

  Looking askance into the shadows, Maggie saw that there was no campground. “We’re spending another night in a cemetery, aren’t we?”

  “Ah, no one will mind.”

  I’ll mind, thought Maggie. She turned on the flashlight and beamed the yellow light slowly around. A gigantic Celtic cross dominated the churchyard, but there were hundreds of other graves; some mere flattened slabs in the ground wedged between colossal intricately carved Victorian monuments. There was also a sweet old church with a high spire, and a tidy modern bungalow—the teashop, no doubt.

  “How old is this place?”

  “Ah, this stuff’s young, relatively speaking; though you never know what’s buried beneath the earth.” Maggie glanced down. “Saint Columba built a monastery here in the sixth century, just before his exile. The cross is his handiwork.” Elaborate carvings along the vertical base depicted triads of monks; the cross itself was fitted inside a circle. On the whole, it seemed more pagan than Christian.

  “Why was he exiled?”

  “Difference of opinion. His monks borrowed a manuscript, you see, and then copied it without permission. You know how the monks used to create illuminated scripts like in The Book of Kells? Have you heard of it?”

  “I’ve seen pictures of it.”

  “Well, it was a book like that. Saint Finian, said owner of the book, sent his men after it, and a great battle ensued just up the road.”

  “Over plagiarism?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Who won?”

  “Won?” She shrugged. “No one ever wins. Three thousand men died over a book and poor Saint Columba was so grieved he left Ireland, crossed the sea, and began his missionary work on Iona. This is a tragic land, overrun by ghosts.”

  “Ghosts.”

  “Do you not believe in such things?” Maggie shook her head. “Have you forgotten so soon our midnight soiree at Carrowmore?”

  “Those weren’t ghosts. Those were—” Shocked to realize that the whole fantastic episode had slipped her mind until the moment Primrose mentioned it, she asked timidly, “What was that? Was I dreaming or hallucinating or—?”

  “Ah, we’ll talk more later. Let’s get the tent up before the rain. Mind your feet. Don’t stumble over any graves.”

  “Why? Will the ghosts come up and grab me?” Though spoken sarcastically, her trepidation trickled through.

  “Mind your tongue and your feet, girleen. The old folks say that if you stumble over a grave, you’ll be dead by year’s end.”

  “Jesus, Primrose. Have you forgotten why I was sent here?”

  “Just mind, is all.”

  By the time the tent was pitched and sleeping bags set inside, Maggie had decided to forego her midnight stroll through the dark graveyard. Sulky and fretful, she crawled into the tent beside Primrose.

  “No adventure tonight?”

  “Too tired,” replied Maggie, yawning feebly to illustrate the extent of her exhaustion.

  In the darkness of the tent, only the shape of Primrose’s round head was visible—that and her small pointy ears. “Are you scared?” she cackled.

  “No.”

  “Ah, don’t be scared, wee girl,” Primrose teased. “I won’t let any harm come to you.”

  “I’m not scared.
” She lay stiffly, her face flushed with annoyance, until she could stand it no longer; then grabbed the flashlight and crawled back out into the damp night. It irked her that this was another of Primrose’s manipulations—the witch was a master at it—yet she felt compelled. “Fine. I’ll go look for Yeats’ grave. Maybe the faeries will fly down from Ben Bulben and spirit me away.”

  “Just mind your feet,” sang Primrose.

  At first, Maggie’s ears rang with the silence. She stopped and listened, could distinguish the distant roaring of the sea against the rocks, the night wind rattling the tree branches, the odd bleat of a lonely sheep. Gazing up at the thin silver curl that blinked its way through the black star-studded sky, she realized that, although they were in different time zones, this moon was the very same moon that hung over Buntzen Lake. Feeling suddenly at peace, she cursed and praised Primrose, who always seemed to know what she needed.

  She did her best to tiptoe around gravestones, but some name would pop from the grass and send her leaping for new ground or stumbling on uneven edges. She even tried to avoid stepping on the cracks. Step on a crack and you break your mother’s back. There had been days, as a child, when she went out of her way to step on cracks. Now Shannon’s tragic courage filled her mind, and she made a mental note to be kinder to her mother once all of this madness had run its course.

  Picking her way through the grave markers, she read inscriptions—looking for Yeats, but also Vallely. Oddly enough, there seemed to be no one named Vallely here at all, though Primrose claimed it was an old Irish name. Maybe she’d never find her mother’s people. Maybe she’d just go on travelling around the island with Primrose forever. No, she couldn’t do that. She’d go mad, never quite knowing which thoughts were hers and which had been embedded.

  Far around the back of the cemetery, shadowed by the church, the trees grew denser and the gravestones more obscure. Perhaps they’d started here in the old days and moved steadily westward towards the sea as time wore on.

  Startled by a dark shape emerging from the woods, she tripped on the edge of a flat stone and dropped the flashlight. Quickly regaining her footing, she crouched to pick it up, then watched fearfully as the shape moved steadily forward. Perhaps a caretaker lived nearby, or a neighbour, seeing them arrive on the motorbike, had come to investigate. Should she make a run for it? Surrounded by tombstones, there was no free path. Did people carry guns in Ireland?

  Standing perfectly still, she watched the eerie figure draw closer and closer. Then, flipping on the flashlight, she shone the beam of light directly in his eyes. If he intended to hurt her, perhaps she could blind him long enough to escape. Shivers of goose bumps rose on her flesh.

  This was no stranger.

  “Daddy,” she breathed. “You can’t be here.” Still, the shape continued to glide slowly and steadily towards her, skirting the tops of graves, dissolving through weathered tombstones like a hazy mist. “You can’t be—” she repeated, as the adrenaline surged through her legs, buckling her knees. Falling hard on her butt, she hit a cold granite slab with the edge of her hip and cursed as pain shot through her leg. Pushing herself back to her feet, she staggered and fought for balance.

  Mere steps away now, she could see him clearly—the soft puffiness of his ashen face, the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown. Wearing his best sable suit and the burgundy shirt she’d bought him last Christmas, he looked ready for mass, or as if—

  “No Daddy.” He stretched out his arms to draw her in and she took two steps towards him. “If you’re here Daddy, it means…it means you’re—” But her whisper faded against the dreadful thumping of her own heart and she sobbed. “Does it hurt? Does it—?”

  The mouth opened, and she froze as soft susurrations escaped the slowly pulsing lips. “He’s coming,” he said, with such anguish the oxygen rushed from her lungs. “He’s coming for you.”

  Gasping, she fought for breath against the rapid beating of her heart; slipping from her panicked state only as a sliver of night air passed through one nostril.

  And then he was gone.

  “Daddy,” she gasped, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Maggie. What’s happened?” Primrose was suddenly there with her hands on her shoulders. “Did you stumble?”

  Had Primrose seen nothing? Heard nothing? How could she have missed it? John Taylor: standing, speaking, and looking as real as if he was alive. Except that he wasn’t. He was dead. And, she had killed him. If she hadn’t flirted with Father Grace, he’d never have kidnapped her, and her father would not have fallen down the stairs to his death.

  “Yeah, I stumbled—” Her words spun out with a keen edge but with them came ferocious tears. Wiping her cheeks, she looked down, and saw below, the name Burke etched in the stone beside her knee. “And, you’re right as usual, Primrose. I probably will be dead within the year because that psycho priest—the one that kidnaps and burns witches—he’s coming. He’s coming for me. My daddy says.”

  Nothing mattered now. Even after Finn’s granddaughter Siobhan, who had known the Vallelys all her life, gave them explicit directions to her grandparents’ home, Maggie could not be stirred.

  Descending from the Irish mist, John Taylor’s ghost had snuffed her out as deftly as a candle.

  14: I Am a Man Again

  “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA how many times I called you, compadre? Why the hell didn’t you pick up?”

  “I’m sorry, man, I…” Estrada began, then paused. He could find no adequate explanation and a lie would not do, not for Michael. He knew exactly how many times Michael had called. He’d seen the messages. He’d even listened to most of them. They were all similar. A heartfelt plea to call; something he just could not do. Even now, he paced Michael’s tower, looking to pacify the demon that lurked inside his head. “Are we alone?”

  “Quite. Clive is filling in for me at Pegasus until I’ve recovered.”

  “Oh, that’s sweet. Club Manager Attacked in Alley: Baby Brother Usurps the Throne. That beating affected your brain, man. Can you not see what’s going on?”

  Michael lit a cigarette and leaned against the bar. Wearing nothing but a slouchy pair of black leggings, he looked semi-starved. His busted arm was braced by a black silk sling. “Perhaps you should enlighten me, since things seem to be going so well for you.”

  “Don’t pout, man.” Estrada knelt in the window seat. Pressing his hands against the pane, he stared into the night and wondered if he was out there. Palms chilled, he held them against his cheeks and looked at the prints his hands left on the glass.

  “Pouting is my prerogative. Now, come and open the wine. I can’t manage the bloody corkscrew yet.”

  Estrada obeyed. “Chateau Margaux 2004? What’s the occasion?”

  “Homecoming, of course.”

  He popped the cork. “We really should let this sit a while.”

  “It can sit in the glass,” said Michael, who was hunched over the coffee table crushing a pile of white powder with a razor blade. Estrada filled two tumblers with the fleshy Bordeaux and set them down at the other end.

  “I see that’s no problem for you.”

  “There are many things I’ve learned to do with one hand.” Content with his work, he dipped in a silver coke spoon and snorted some in each nostril. “Come here, compadre,” he said, and after refilling the spoon, held it out for Estrada. “It seems like aeons since we’ve done this together.”

  “That’s true,” said Estrada, and snorted.

  “And again,” said Michael, repeating the ritual. The ensuing rush tinged the back of Estrada’s brain. “Feels good, yes?” Michael dipped the spoon and took another long snort himself.

  Estrada sniffed and wiped his nose. “Yes, but the subject still stands. That little bastard has done nothing but wreak havoc since he appeared.”

  Michael slouched on the chaise. “Wreaking havoc? That’s your forte, n'est-ce pas?”

  Estrada exhaled loudly, buzzed by the powder. “He stal
ked you.”

  “He was trying to get to know me.”

  “By peeking from behind parked cars? Why didn’t he just introduce himself like any normal person would?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Michael, with a slight cough. “Normal?”

  Sitting back in the window seat, Estrada grasped the tumbler and downed the contents. “Have you not noticed that each time something bad has happened, Clive has been lurking in the shadows? When Jade disappeared, when Sensara and I were abducted, and again when you were beaten? And, when we went to Yale, he disappeared, but he knew what happened and what was said.”

  “You don’t think they’re conspirators? Why would Clive—?” He sat for a moment pondering, and then concluded, “No, that’s impossible. It’s merely coincidence.”

  Estrada shrugged, then finished his wine. “You know, as well as I do, there are no coincidences.” He sat the tumbler on the table and refilled it to the brim.

  Michael lit a cigarette. With a shrug, he blew a smoke ring and watched it fade. “I think you’re taking this far too personally, compadre.”

  “And you’re not?” Estrada swallowed another mouthful of wine. Michael was definitely defensive and he wasn’t sure why. “Did you hear what the little bastard said to Sensara?”

  “Payback’s a bitch.”

  “Payback? Clive tells my girlfriend that I had an affair with a killer, and that somehow equates to hitching home from the valley?” He swallowed the rest of the wine in one gulp, and crashed the glass down so viciously on the window ledge, it broke. “This is why I didn’t answer your calls. You’ve been fucking bromanced.”

  “Come now. If anyone’s been bromanced—” Catching the blaze in Estrada’s eye, he stopped and took a deep breath. “Look, compadre. We’re both under pressure, but there should be no bad blood between us. Please, come here.”

  Ignoring the pass, Estrada scraped the broken glass into his hand and disappeared into the kitchen. Emerging with another glass, he filled it, flopped on the other couch, and put his feet up. The wine and cocaine were rollicking through his body.