To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  Out in the front paddock, two young women on stunning hunter jumpers ran the circuit, leaping bars and ditches at breakneck speed under the floodlights. Maggie stood watching as a group of kids returned from a trail ride with rosy cheeks and eyes stained with tired joy, stroked their horse’s necks and handed them over reluctantly to waiting hands. Sighing, she thought how much she’d wanted this, craved it over the years.

  Somewhere here was the scene of her conception—or misconception, depending on how you looked at it—and she was determined to find it, along with the man who’d spawned her and betrayed her mother. Having traded her goth look for a pair of cheap jeans, and a toque and rainproof jacket from Penney’s, she was confident that she fit in rather well. She’d even found a bright green shamrock scarf on Shannon’s dresser and tied it around her neck for luck. She might not pass for a rich equestrian, but she made a decent stable hand.

  Maggie had no idea what Colin Burke looked like, but was convinced she’d know him when she saw him; after all, his genes flowed through her body. Several hands milled about—mostly girls in jeans and gumboots—cleaning stalls, spreading fresh bedding, and brushing and currying handsome horses. She tried to imagine her mother as one of them. Although on some level, Maggie understood Shannon’s reluctance to let her daughter become a rider, she wished she’d had a crack at this life. Horses were the most beautiful animals in the world.

  She stopped and stroked the nose of a sleek chestnut mare. “Hello beauty,” she crooned to the mare.

  “Her name is Epona,” corrected a young boy, who looked to be around twelve years old. “Like the goddess.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, Epona was a Celtic goddess who protected horses.”

  “Hello Epona. Are you a goddess?” The mare nickered and blew breath into her face.

  “That means she likes you.”

  Maggie giggled. “Well, I like her too. Say, do you have any idea where Colin Burke might be?” The casual voice that slipped out covered the trepidation that twisted her guts in circles.

  “He’s in the brood mares’ barn, the green building down at the end there. He’s checking on the pregnant mares. We’re expecting a grand batch of foals, some real trophy winners. Premium stuff.”

  “I see.” So, that’s what horses were all about for Colin Burke. Trophies. “You work here then?”

  The young boy rolled his eyes. “Work? Heavens no. I’m Christopher Burke. My grandfather owns this place,” he said, and gazed over his tiny empire.

  Jolted by this news, Maggie produced a tight-lipped smile to hide the rage beneath. Of course, it made perfect sense. Colin gets Shannon pregnant, disposes of her, and then marries someone suitable, someone worthy of the name. This snobby arrogant boy, with his short brown hair and small squirrely eyes was her stepbrother: the heir apparent. Figured. Finally, after years of wanting siblings, she discovers a brother and he turns out to be a pretentious little jerk.

  “Right,” she said curtly, and made her way towards the barn.

  Colin Burke stood next to a glossy mare as black as coal, except for the white five-pointed star on her forehead. Witch horse, Maggie thought. He ran his hands over her swelling belly, appraising the growing foal. Poster boy for “Equine Entrepreneur” dressed for a day of horsemanship in high brown leather boots, gloves, jodhpurs, an ivory turtleneck and brown leather blazer; the man obviously spent no time mucking about. Wouldn’t want to get his hands dirty, when there were stable hands for that, and other things. It was hard to imagine this slender dark-haired man could really be her father. Exactly how many of his genes inhabited her body and soul?

  Corridors of spacious box stalls lined three walls of the main floor and housed the mares. The whitewashed barn shone immaculately and felt like a luxury hotel. A heady scent of leather issued from the tack room, covering any possible odour of manure, while copious certificates and blue ribbons lined the walls of the adjacent office. Premium stuff. Through the open door, Maggie spied a near-empty bottle of Irish whiskey on the huge mahogany desk beside a large tumbler. So Colin tippled.

  An open hayloft, framed in heavy beams, hovered above two-thirds of the building, and was accessible by a central wooden staircase. Maggie stood for a moment inhaling the rich earthy fragrance of the hay. It was a scent she’d always loved and now she wondered why. Had she ingested it somehow while in her mother’s womb? Perhaps been conceived in this barn, in this very hayloft?

  Engrossed in the examination of his expected commodity, Burke neglected to notice her.

  “She’s beautiful,” Maggie said, at last. “What’s her name?”

  “Macha,” he said, without raising his eyes.

  “Are you Colin Burke?” She needed to be sure.

  At this, he shot an annoyed glance her way. “It’s Mr. Burke. You should know that.” When she didn’t leave or respond, he straightened up and squinted, looking her over in much the same way he’d done the mare. Probably needed glasses and was too vain to admit it. “I don’t recognize you. Who hired you? My wife?”

  “No one hired me. I don’t work for you.”

  “Well, in that case, you shouldn’t be here. This barn is for brood mares. You must make an appointment for viewing—if you’re interested in a purchase.” He spoke the last phrase as if someone such as herself couldn’t possibly be in that position.

  “That’s all it is to you, isn’t it? Buying and selling. It’s all about the money.”

  He stopped stroking the mare then, led her back into the stall and bolted the metal door. “I run a business and I certainly don’t have to justify myself to you.” With a sudden start, she saw herself reflected in his gold-flecked eyes. With pursed pink lips, he glared. “Who are you anyway? Do I know you?”

  “Why? Do I look familiar?” Seeing more of herself in him with every passing second—something in the high cheekbones, the thin rigid nose—she shivered.

  “Vaguely,” he replied, shrugging. “You remind me of someone but I can’t—”

  “Place her? Perhaps if my mother had been a horse, you’d remember her better.” His eyes shifted, mind spinning, as he attempted to recall his past liaisons. How many others had there been? Young girls seduced by his pompous charm and, she had to admit, good looks. Colin Burke was still a handsome man, despite the leathered skin that testified to years spent out of doors, and greying streaks at his temples. “She wasn’t a horse, but you treated her like one.”

  “Your mother? I don’t—”

  “Shannon Vallely.”

  “Shannon.” He tested the name as if he was in court. “I don’t recall anyone named Shannon.”

  “Give me a fucking break. Her parents live across the creek.”

  “Mind your tongue, young lady. We don’t talk like that here.”

  “Right, I forgot Sir Posh. You know, I’m glad I didn’t end up having you for a father. Your cousin John was kind and caring. You do recall John Taylor? He loved my mother, and he took care of us as best he could, at least until his accident. He wasn’t some pretentious bastard.”

  “Leave now.” As he marched towards her, green eyes flashing, she realized he could throttle her.

  “Mr. Burke.” The voice was insanely familiar and it stopped Burke in his tracks. Sauntering casually through the open door, Father Grace appeared with his hands in his pockets—his stiff white collar still in place.

  For a moment Maggie stood speechless, taking in this unbelievable occurrence. “You two know each other? How could you—?” It just wasn’t possible. Not only had he found her, he’d infiltrated her life. How had he finagled his way into Burke’s social circle so soon?

  “This is the girl I mentioned to you, Mr. Burke. The one I’ve been trying to locate.”

  “I see,” said Burke. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.”

  “Don’t believe him,” Maggie yelled. “Call the police. This man—”

  “No need for that,” said Grace. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Just be d
iscrete,” Burke replied, relieved to delegate his problems.

  As he brushed by her on his way out of the barn, Maggie grabbed his arm. “Please. Call the police.” Shaking her off, he shut the door.

  “Maggie. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

  “Help me?” Facing him, she shook her fist. “How did you find me? How do you know Colin Burke?”

  “John told me about Burke months ago in one of his more lucid moments. When I heard you’d gone to Ireland, I knew you’d find your way here eventually. Maggie, please. I have so many things I want to tell you. There are things you need to understand.” He motioned to a bench outside the tack room. “Give me a chance.”

  “A chance? Nothing you could possibly say— Well, there is one thing I’d like to know. Why would a priest—if you really are a priest—kill women?”

  “I haven’t killed anyone. And I am a priest. These things you’re saying are just not true. Please, let me explain.”

  “Fine. Explain why you nearly raped me and why you kidnapped me and tied me to a bed, and took those other women and burned them because they were witches.”

  “You’ve got it wrong.” As he moved towards her, she backed up into the horse barn. There was no way he’d ever get near her again. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I know I scared you when I kissed you like that. That was wrong. I just wanted to show you how I felt about you, and then I lost control because…even though I’m a priest and I’ve taken vows of celibacy…I’m in love with you.”

  “In love with me?”

  “Yes. I never meant to hurt you. And I didn’t burn any women. I was taken too that night. Drugged and tied up for days.” His face was flushed and beaded with sweat. “That’s when I realized— God, I’ve practiced this a million times… I need you to understand.” Dropping to his knees, he held out his hands. “Maggie, I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you. I’ve fought it and it’s nearly driven me mad. But, I prayed and God gave me the answer. We can be together through eternity.”

  “What?” By now, she had backed up as far as the central ladder that led into the loft, and as he reached out to touch her, she sprinted up it. “Don’t come up here,” she yelled, and grabbed a pitchfork. “I’ll never be with you. I hate you!”

  Startled by a loud crash, she jumped. A high-pitched whinny came from one of the mares, followed by stamping, and other anxious sounds. Stepping away, Maggie edged around the loft and peered into the box stalls below, and to her left. She saw nothing out of place, but when she came back to the ladder and looked down again, dark smoke swirled skyward.

  “Father. No!” She started climbing back down, but realized it was already too late. Flames twisted up the ladder fed by a heap of dry straw he’d scattered around the base of it. There was no way down and no sign of the priest. Damn him. Below, the horses, locked in their stalls, neighed and paced with mounting fear as the threatening stench filled the barn.

  “Fire! Help! I’m trapped.” Adrenaline coursing through her veins, she realized that the loft was one giant torch poised to ignite. The fire would claim her first, and then the floor would cave in. The horses would die. A barn full of pregnant mares. She could not let that happen.

  After tying her scarf over her nose and mouth, she searched for an escape route. The smoke burned her eyes. Surely, someone would see it. It billowed in great clouds, filling the loft, devouring the oxygen, and drifting like a thick blanket into the mares’ stalls. Kicking now, bashing boards and screaming, the mares panicked, as flames consumed the brittle hay and wooden beams.

  Beams. Running both horizontally and vertically, they connected the loft with the main floor. If she could cross the diagonal beam before it burned through, she could reach a vertical beam, and then what? Shimmy down? Jump? Time was running out. The beams were already flecked with flame.

  She picked her way through the fire, and started across the nearest beam, one step at a time. Don’t look down. It was a thirty foot drop to the cement floor. If she fell—

  I can do this…must do this. I’ve walked the balance beam a million times before. Things began to thud and crash amidst the crackling wood as the horses pounded their bodies against the walls of their cells and shrieked. She was almost there—

  And then, she was careening through the air beside the fractured beam.

  With a thud, she hit the floor, her fall broken only by a cushion of straw in the stall below. One long gasp and then no breath. Panic, and then a voice, singing in her head. Be calm. You’ve just knocked the wind out of your lungs. Relax, and take small sips through your nose. This will pass.

  But, the painted mare thrashed, beating the wooden stall door with her hooves. There was no time. Crawling to her knees, still with no air entering her lungs, she used the wall to push herself up. She had to free the horses. And then, as a trickle of smoky air found its way through, the panic subsided.

  Gasping and coughing, she edged her way along the wall towards the door. “Easy now, girl, I’m going to open the door and let you out.” The mare’s screaming lessened as Maggie touched her shoulder.

  Keeping one hand on the horse’s neck to steady her, she used her other to lift the latch and open the door. With a rush, the mare bolted and cantered in panicked circles. “I have to get the others.” Running along the corridors, she hit the latches. Stall doors opened, as fiery beams crashed around her. Catching her foot on a busted beam, she careened across the corridor and crashed to the floor.

  “Christ!” She’d scraped her knee and turned her right ankle. She tried to stand on it, but it could take no weight. Rising on the other foot, she saw the white pentagram on the black face. The witch horse was there, breathing in her face, staring with wide black eyes. Stepping up on a broken beam, she swung her sore ankle over the horse’s back and held on with both hands.

  The mare cantered toward the main door, then standing on her hind legs, crashed against it with her front hooves. “Jesus!” Maggie yelled, and sliding backwards, gripped her mane. Repeatedly, the witch horse battered the door. When the hinges gave way at last, it swung wide, and out they flew, like a herd of wild mustangs.

  When the mare stopped running, Maggie hugged her damp neck and inhaled the heady scent. From the edge of her burning eyes, she saw her horse tattoo, scratched and burned and smudged with soot.

  “What the hell did you do?”

  Maggie looked down, into the bulging eyes of Colin Burke.

  ≈

  “Chew on this,” Primrose said, and tickled Estrada’s nose with a sprig of peppermint. “It’s sweet and calming, so.”

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, opening his mouth to accept the cool fresh leaves.

  “Grows wild along the ditch there,” she said, gesturing below. “My mam said every plant has a purpose.”

  “And a time for every purpose under heaven.” They’d been lying side by side on their backs in her secret place, for hours it seemed, fingers touching in the soft wet grass. He’d forgotten everything else, intoxicated by the moment: the wet earth, the silhouetted trees in the distance, the shadows that crossed the bright half-moon, and her.

  Snuggling close beside him, she put her hand on his heart. “It’s good to see you let down, Sorcerer. I think your world is too much with you.”

  He laughed. “All that and she quotes Wordsworth too.”

  “We Irish girls go to school.”

  “How is it that I’ve known you for only a day, and yet I feel as if I’ve known you forever?”

  “Ah, there’s a simple answer to that.”

  “Tell me.”

  “This brief walk we call life is but a fraction of eternity. Do you not believe in immortality, Sorcerer?”

  “I want to. Especially now that I’ve met you.”

  “But, you’ll not believe it until you’ve seen it with your own eyes? Is that it?”

  “It’s hard to believe in something you can’t see or touch.”

  “And you a magician and a witch,”
she scoffed.

  “When I do magic, I know it’s an illusion.”

  “And when your priestess draws down the moon and the goddess speaks through her, is that just an illusion too?”

  He shivered, remembering that night at Buntzen Lake and the horrible riddle that Sensara had spoken in the voice of Hecate—one would be burned and four would die. He’d tried to put it out of his mind, hoping it would never happen. But John Taylor had died. And once he had merged with a raven and flown over a town called Hope, and there was no explaining that. And then there was the killer and feeling so enthralled by him.

  “You’re right,” he said, solemnly. “There is more to it than what we can see and feel.”

  “Aye. Faith. Of course, there are signs, and now that your inner eye is open and your heart’s strong again, you’ll see them and know them for what they are. Like this. What’s this a sign of?” Leaning over, she brushed her lips against his.

  He opened his mouth and kissed her for what seemed an eternity. Then shivering, he rolled on top of her. “Approaching orgasm?”

  “Ah. You’re still thinking with this,” she said, pushing her pelvis against him. “What else? What’s better than sex?” She pushed him over and sat on top of him.

  “There’s something better than sex? Is this a trick question? Wait. Let me think… Love?”

  She smiled. “Aye, love. Faith and love are like this,” she said, crossing one finger over the other. “So whenever you doubt your faith, remember this.” Leaning over, she held his arms against the moist grass and gave him a long sensual kiss. Falling down beside him, she stared into his soul. “You, my beautiful man, have much love still to come in this life—many brilliant lovers and much adventure and much hardship too.”