To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  It felt good to be naked, and he dreaded climbing back into his tight black jeans, but he hadn’t brought any other clothes into the bathroom. Should he walk out wrapped in a towel, or was that too presumptuous? Miffed, he wondered why he was even concerned. Back home he would have sauntered out naked and fully armed. It was Primrose—she unnerved him.

  A rusty brown robe, the same shade as her eyes, hung on a hook behind the door. He tried it on, and was surprised to find it a perfect fit. It must belong to the roommate, Kieran. Examining the small bathroom, he saw signs of him everywhere. Not that it was any of his business if she had a male roommate, or even that it mattered. Except it did.

  Glancing in the mirror, he was startled by his reflection. At twenty-eight, he looked like a tired old man. His hair, he realized, had done much to hide his true self. Perhaps, as the man who’d taken it claimed, it did contain his power. With his finger, he traced lines that he’d never seen before. His cheeks were thin and hollow, and dark shadows fell below his eyes that revealed more than jet lag. He brushed his teeth, and then finding a tube of green tea lotion in the corner, smoothed it over his hands and face, paying the wrinkles particular attention. The least he could do was smell good.

  Quietly he opened the door. She’d lit candles in the living room and was sitting cross-legged on an old red leather sofa. As he entered, she gestured toward a bed of quilts she’d made up on the floor in the middle of a floral patterned rug. “Lie down on your back, Sorcerer. Let go of the world.”

  Not knowing how to respond to this, but appreciating an invitation similar to one he’d savoured the previous night in a land across the sea, he smiled and laid down. A huge sigh escaped. It had been a long day where, for much of the time, he’d been trapped alone in his own anxious thoughts, and he hated being alone.

  She knelt beside him and touched his smooth cheek. “Lovely. Do you work with a healer back home?”

  The question startled him. He considered the word healer and finally said, “Sensara’s a massage therapist and she does psychic healings.”

  “Ah, your woman.”

  “We’re not together now.” He wanted that made clear. “She—”

  “No need,” she said, shrugging it off. “It’s just that, sometimes I can see things, and sometimes I can help. If you’re of a mind to let me.”

  “See things?”

  “Aye. There’s a great heaviness around your heart, and your third eye is near closed,” she said, touching his forehead. “And, there’s a heap of…chaos and debris, aye, that’s what it is, here in the lower extremity.” Her hands swept through the air as if she were conducting a symphony. “And here,” she said, laying her palm across his stomach. “I fear your power has dwindled to almost nothing.”

  “So, I’m a write-off.”

  “Ah, not quite. You’re still lovely.” She stroked his cheek again. “You’re just in no fit state to go off fighting dragons.” When she placed one palm on his forehead and the other on his belly, he sighed and closed his eyes. “That’s it now. Sigh it out. Then lie still and let me have my way with you. I’ll take good care of you, mind.” Her words came slow and breathy, and although he could not feel her hands against his flesh, heat emanated from her palms as they swept over his body.

  “Ah, impotence is no problem, I see.” With a giggle, she tossed a blanket over the erection that had popped through the robe. “I’ll just put that away for now, shall I?”

  He grinned, unashamed, and tried to flirt, but his tongue felt thick and heavy and words would not come. Soon he forgot what he was going to say, feeling only the focussed heat of her hands. Images formed in his mind. Lover after lover appeared: some he remembered, while others were nameless and faceless; flesh and scents and pounding rhythms, beginning long ago when he was just a boy. And then, he felt the man’s seductive lips and he grew so aroused he gasped, teetering on the edge of orgasm.

  “Let them fly, now. Don’t grasp or cling.” With her jarring voice, he pushed the man away, and slipped into Sensara, and then he was with Michael and felt infused by the familiarity of their love.

  “Let them go. Let them fly,” she repeated. “When so many are piled one on top of the other, the flavours mingle until you cannot savour any.” The breeze from her hands swirled in the air above his pelvis, and he imagined her cutting the strings of past liaisons. For a moment, such a deep sense of loss overcame him, he fought to resurrect them. Michael. An ocean of disparate dreams, they sailed into the ethers.

  “You’re not alone, Sorcerer,” she said, holding his hand tenderly, “and your memories will remain, just not the desperate anguished energy you’ve been carrying. Heaps upon heaps of bodies belong only to the grave.” Feeling stripped and empty, awkward and alone, he reached out to clutch her.

  “Easy, my beautiful man. Lie back and breathe with me now.” Taking each of his hands in hers, she pushed him down gently, so that the backs of his hands settled into the blanket, and she hovered over him. Palm to palm, a vibrant current spiked through his hands and up his arms, warming his entire body. Her sweet breath grazed his forehead, and as he felt her inhale deeply and then release, a sense of calm swept through him. Joining her in synchronized breaths, that grew slower and slower until his heart barely beat, he sank into the floor.

  “That’s better. I’ve got you.” He felt her lift her hands and sweep them across his solar plexus. “Now, I want you to create a cloud of swirling saffron dust right here above your navel.” Feeling the heat from her hands, he imagined a beautiful mist, the colour of a monk’s robe, drifting just below his heart.

  “This is your power centre,” she said, and spreading wide his robe, she lay her warm palms just below his ribs. “Together we’re going to fill you with power. Now open your rib cage and let the cloud descend and spiral through your diaphragm. Let it grow and fill you, washing over all your bones and muscles and internal organs.” With the visions, he felt suddenly expanded, as if he’d been blown full of warm air. “This power’s yours. No one can take it from you, unless you give it freely.” Again, he felt the swirling sense of images being carved in the air above him.

  Then suddenly her hot hands were on his breasts, her thumbs digging into his ribs. Feeling torn, he burst into tears. “Ah, you’ll be all right. Your sweet heart’s been cloaked in darkness for a long, long time and it needs setting free.”

  “It burns.” Tears escaped as he saw images too horrible to describe, and in the midst of it all, a great black demon rose up clutching knives in both its clawed hands, and its eyes were gold and lined in kohl, and they were his. “Stop. No more. The pain—”

  “Aye, there’s pain, but you cannot love like this, and I know you long for love. If you didn’t, you’d feel no pain at all. The demon would consume you.”

  “Please,” he begged, and cried so hard he choked.

  “Sorcerer, take control. Imagine the most beautiful green—”

  “I can’t. It hurts. It’s too much. I’m going to—”

  “Open your eyes, Estrada. Look at me.”

  Slowly, he opened his riffling lids and stared into her eyes, and they were shimmering as deep and bright as an turquoise lagoon. “There, now. Take the cool sea from my eyes—I’ll do it with you—and spread it over the fire in your heart. It’s an ocean wave, a cool blue blanket. That’s right. It’s putting out the flames and soothing the pain. The darkness is gone but your heart is still open, still able to love. Do you feel it?”

  “Yes,” he whispered, and held up his hands to touch her face, still unable to take his eyes from hers. “I love you.”

  She dried his tears with the sleeve of her shirt. “Ah sure, it’s grand to love with an open heart. It’s magic. Now, will you close your eyes one more time?”

  Leaning over, she brushed her lips across each eyelid and visions of angels filled his head. They hovered in clouds with serene, androgynous faces and glimmering white wings lifted by the winds of heaven. As a small child, these were the images he loved m
ost from his religion. He remembered the candles, the cathedral, and the robed priest chanting in Latin.

  “We’ve one more thing to do, my beautiful man,” she whispered, breaking his trance.

  He felt her change position. Kneeling at the top of his head, she gazed down on him. “I’m going to help you open your third eye. When I do this, you’ll see things—some things that may frighten you even more than that demon you just saw, because you don’t yet understand. But, you must remember, Estrada, you’re always in control of your own mind. These are not my visions and I am not putting these images in your head. If it’s too much and you really must stop; say the word and we will. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, feeling suddenly like he could trust her with his life. “Do it.” Somewhere in the hollows of his mind, he recalled something a woman named Van Gelder had once written about opening the third eye.

  Then he felt her fingertips against his forehead, and with it came the sensation of light beaming into his skull. Collecting at a small point in the centre of his head, rays emanated outwards, as colours swirled through his mind. They formed shapes—a luminescent pentagram at first, and then the sides of the star formed arms and legs, like DaVinci’s Vitruvian man, ancient and—

  “Beautiful,” he whispered. Then there were myriad shapes swirling together and in the centre he saw a passageway. They beckoned him down inside, but it was cold and dark and smelled of fecund earth and bone and ash and decay. “No, I can’t. I can’t.” And, suddenly her hands were gone from his brow and he lay panting on the floor.

  “Aye. It’s not your time, not yet. But there now. You’ve seen what your man Yeats longed to see and never did.”

  “But, I can’t move or be alone. Will you sleep with me?”

  “Aye, my beautiful man.” She crawled beside him and covered them both with the blanket. With Primrose in his arms, her cheek brushing his breast and her palm on his open heart, he fell into a deep sleep, thinking of nothing but her.

  ≈

  It was a woman who opened the door of the faerie tale house when Maggie knocked the next day; a tiny walnut-skinned woman, rounded about the shoulders and stooped over a hand-carved cane.

  “Ah, at last,” she said, as if she’d been waiting, “Come in. Come in.” Popping her head outside the door, she glanced around as if she were expecting others; then seeing no one else, stood back and smiled. “I’ll just put the kettle on, shall I?”

  Primrose said that some things a girl had to do on her own and this was one of them. She’d taken Estrada for a ramble in the woods around Ashford Castle and promised to return with him later. But, that did nothing for Maggie’s anxiety. She hesitated, then stepped through the door and glanced around.

  “Ah, you’re safe enough, pet. Paddy’s scooted off to Achill Island for a session. That man never could sit still.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Aye, sure. You’re Margaret Mary.” The syllables rolled slowly off her tongue. “That’s me mam’s name, bless her soul. But you go by Maggie, don’t you? Ah, you’re the spitting image of Shannon. She was just about your age when she left us. That’s what threw your grandad into such a dither the other day. Poor man couldn’t believe his eyes.”

  “So you’re really my grandmother?” It was almost unbelievable. “Can I call you Grandma?” Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be the grandchild of this dear woman.

  “Name’s Moira,” she said, and opened her arms, “Moira Vallely. But I’d be blessed if you’d call me Gran. I’ve been waiting a long time to hear you speak it.” And for the very first time, Maggie hugged her gran.

  “So, you know about me?”

  “Come along, pet. We’ll make some tea, then sit by the fire, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  In the old-fashioned kitchen, Gran filled the teapot with tea leaves, just like Dylan’s great-grandmother would have done. When it was brewed, Maggie picked up the tray that held the teapot, strainer, cups, milk, sugar, spoons, and thick oat biscuits, and followed her into the front room.

  “Set it down there,” said Gran, pointing to the polished wood table in front of the hearth. It was worn and scarred with years of use. “Candlelight is so much warmer than those horrid electric light bulbs,” she said, as she shuffled about the room lighting candles, one from another.

  “Yes, it’s lovely. But I have to tell you something, Gran, and it’s not good news.”

  “News rarely is, but go on then. Tell me what brought you back again so soon after your grandfather’s foul greeting.”

  “It’s about my mother. She wants to come home. Here, to Ireland.”

  “Well, that’s grand news.”

  “Yes, but—” Maggie stumbled, caught on the edge of all that had happened, and then it spilled out in a torrent. “You see, our priest kidnapped me. He didn’t hurt me much, but while I was gone, my father got confused and fell down the stairs, and then he had a stroke, and well, he died a few days ago. So, my mother sent me here to find you because she was afraid that the priest would come after me again, and now she’s all alone in Canada and wants to come home. She thought I’d be safe here, but the thing is, Gran, I think he’s here too. The priest, I mean. I think he followed me.”

  “Good lord, a priest who kidnaps young girls? What’s this world coming to?”

  “I know. I’m afraid he might find out where you live. I’m afraid he might try to kill us all.”

  “Why on earth would he do that?”

  “It’s a long story, and I really don’t understand it, but it seems to have started because he hates witches. You remember in the old days when they burned witches?” Her grandmother nodded. “Well, Gabriel Grace—that’s his name—he burns witches too. At least, he burned a witch named Jade, and he probably would have burned me too, if Dylan and Estrada hadn’t found me. I think he might try to kill me because I know him and what he’s done.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! No priest in his right mind would do that. He must be tormented so.” Picking up the teapot, she poured two cups. “Come and fix your tea, pet, and have a biscuit. It will make you feel better.”

  Maggie did as she was told, then huddled in one of the cozy armchairs by the fire and took a sip. The tea was milky sweet and immediately brought comfort.

  Gran settled into the other armchair and balanced her teacup in her lap. “Now, tell me about this priest.”

  “He used to help us. My father had a head injury and Father Grace was always around, taking him out for a drive in his car, or just sitting with him. I can’t believe it, really. I mean, one minute I wanted to get away, and thought I never would, and then—” She sighed what words could not express.

  “You poor dear. Death is a hard thing to fathom, especially for a young thing like yourself.” She sipped her tea and gazing lovingly at Maggie.

  “But Gran, what if he is coming here? Shouldn’t we do something?”

  “Ah, you’re safe enough in this house. Drink your tea, loveen.”

  Maggie looked at the door which she hadn’t bothered to lock. She looked at the cane carved in Celtic spirals like the ones etched on Primrose’s head, and then she looked again at her grandmother. Something very strange was going on. Either her grandmother didn’t understand or—

  “That Primrose, isn’t she grand?” Gran giggled, her eyes twinkling in the candle glow. “I brought that one into the world.”

  “What?”

  “Held her in my hands and blessed her.”

  “I don’t understand. You know Primrose?”

  “Why, her mother Nuala and I were best friends our whole lives. Rory and Paddy played every weekend together in the pub. The Macaulay’s cottage is just across the field, you see. We were neighbours.”

  “Get out!” Maggie was flabbergasted. “Primrose? All this time, she knew? She knew you and where you lived and exactly who you were. Why did she drag me to all those pubs and off to sleep in cemeteries, if she knew exactly where you were?”

/>   “How much fun would that have been?”

  “I’ll kill her.”

  Moira giggled. “Ah, go on. You had a grand time, and who knows, you may need her yet.”

  Maggie scowled. “You do know she’s a witch.”

  “We don’t use that word, dear. Dreadful connotations.”

  “We? You’re not a witch, too, are you?” Her gran grinned and sipped her tea. This was too much. Was everyone in Ireland either magical or fey? “Why did you say that we’re safe here?”

  “Oh, the ivy tree, of course. Didn’t you notice when you walked up the path?”

  “You mean the tree that’s wrapped around the house?”

  “Aye. She’ll not let anyone inside this house intent on doing harm. Then there’s the mistletoe and holly.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” said Gran. Maggie giggled and then stifled a yawn. “You look as if you need a nap, pet. I’m almost ready for one myself.” Maggie looked anxiously at the door. “Primrose won’t be along until supper time at least.”

  “How do you know that? Are you telepathic?”

  “You don’t need to be a mind reader when you know someone. Come along. I’ll show you your mother’s old room. I’ve left everything just as it was when she left. I knew she’d come home someday. You can sleep there tonight.” Smiling, she touched Maggie’s cheek. “Then, in the morning, you must go and see Colin Burke.”

  “Burke? Why do I know that name? Who is he? And what about my grandad? He doesn’t want me here.”

  “Ah, don’t fret. Himself won’t be back for a day or two, and by then, it’ll all be sorted. Come along now. I think you’ll like Shannon’s old room.”

  “But wait. Who is Colin Burke?”

  “Our neighbour across the creek.”

  “So?” she shrugged.

  “Why Colin’s your father, pet. Did your mam not tell you?”

  ≈

  Estrada watched Primrose flip over a pale flat rock and retrieve a worn brass skeleton key. Fitting it in the lock on the top half of the bright red door, she gave one quick turn and with a clunk, it swung wide.