To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1)

by Wendy Louise Hawkin

  Confused, he cocked his head. “What about you?” Content for the first time in his life, he hoped he might stay here with her forever.

  “I can’t read myself, never could.” Leaning over, she touched his lips with her finger, and then touched her finger to her own lips. “Now, tell me what you see.”

  He sat up and looked around. “I see the wet green grass on this hilltop shimmering like silver in the moonlight, and the silhouette of the whitethorn tree, and farther away, the shadows of the forest by the creek, and in the sky, clouds scudding across the moon.”

  “Light and shadow. Illusion, as the masters say. Do you see how none of it is real?”

  “You’re real,” he said, and touched her face.

  “Aye, and so are they. As real as you or me, and full of life and love and delicious freedom.”

  He cocked his head. “Do you mean—?”

  “The Good People, the Gentry, the Faeries, the Angels that fell from heaven. They’ve been called many names, but they’ve always been with us, and the country people have always seen them and respected their ways.”

  “Can you see them?”

  “Aye, sure. Them and all they’ve left behind. Their earthworks, like this ráth we’re lying on, where they lived and buried the ashes and bones of their dead. Why they’re my family, my tribe. They teach me. I walk and dance among them, and I love them so.”

  “This is really a faerie ráth?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who are they exactly?”

  “The Tuatha de Danaan built these ráths thousands of years ago when they farmed this land. They were the tribes of the goddess Danu. The invading Milesians forced them underground, but couldn’t destroy them.”

  “Really,” he breathed, entranced by her voice.

  “Ah, there’s another place I must take you. It’s in a beautiful fertile valley, along the River Boyne. Now, it’s called Newgrange, but it’s not new. It’s housed the Irish people for millennia and is at the centre of all our stories. The ráth itself is part of a Necropolis, a cluster of tombs where the tribes interred the ashes of their dead once a year at Winter Solstice. When the sun rises over the ridge of the valley, its light hits the roof box just above the entrance stone and creeps down the passageway. In the dead time, the sun illuminates the path to the inner chamber with the promise of new light and new life. Rebirth. Immortality.”

  “I know that story. It sounds like a beautiful place.”

  “Well, if you’re still around in late December, I’ll take you there. I had the luck this year of winning two tickets in the annual lottery. That’s the only way in nowadays.”

  “It’s a date. There’s nothing I’d like more than to be with you when the sun rises at Newgrange on Winter Solstice. Well, maybe there’s one thing—”

  “Hush now. They’re coming.”

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Listen. There’s drums and music and— Look. There they are.”

  “I can’t see anything.”

  Kneeling against his back, she placed her left palm on his heart and her right palm across his forehead. “Close your eyes and breathe,” she whispered in his ear. “Be still and go inside and find your own sweet heartbeat. I can feel it in my hand.” Tapping her fingers lightly, she kept the rhythm until he found it himself. “Now open your eyes just a flutter, just enough to let in the light and look straight on into the night.”

  In the distance, pale shimmering shapes as silvery as moonlight, grew denser and more distinct as he watched. Some rode horses, while others walked beside cows and sheep. They were all ages, the men bearded, and the women’s hair long and free. Barefoot or with skins wrapped round like boots, they wore clothing woven from the wild, and their bodies were tall and magnificent. Near the front of the procession were several pipers and other men beating skin drums. He could hear the music clearly, like the tunes in the pub only infinitely sweeter, and he longed to dance.

  “They’re beautiful.”

  “Aye, and full of love. Once you know them, you can join the dance. But I must caution you, Sorcerer: the more time you spend with them, the more you become like them, more fey and less human.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh aye. They’re grand, sure, but if you’re attached to your humanity—”

  “God, I can’t believe this. I’ve always wanted to—”

  Leaping suddenly to her feet, he thought she would take him to dance among them, but she gestured across the field and shouted: “Fire! That’s the Burke’s farm!”

  Forgetting the faeries, Primrose yanked him by the arm, and they raced towards the billowing smoke and flames that streaked the sky scarlet beyond the trees. Primrose sprinted like a deer as they hurtled across country, leaping fences and ditches. He could barely keep up. Crossing the stream, he realized he could no longer hear the faerie music—only the crash of falling timbers amidst the cries of anxious people, as helplessly they watched the barn erupt in a surging wall of flame.

  “Maggie,” cried Primrose, running into the middle of the chaos. He saw her then himself, standing among the horses. “Are you all right?” Maggie was weeping and clutching her arms across her chest. “Ah, you’re burned, you poor wee thing.”

  The fire trucks arrived then, and an ambulance, and Maggie fought them, and refused to go. “The horses. Did they all get out? And Father Grace? Where’s Father Grace? Did they find him? They’ve got to find him.”

  “Grace? The priest was here?” Estrada asked, feeling suddenly guilty that he’d been sent here to protect her, and when he was needed most he’d been out cavorting in the hills with Primrose.

  “He started it. He tried to kill me.”

  Estrada glanced at the slim man beside her who stood shaking his head. “No one else got out.”

  ≈

  “I guess that’s karma,” said Maggie. “Father Grace burns witches and ends up dying in a fire.”

  Estrada gazed at the flickering candles in the Vallely’s living room and grimaced. He knew that Maggie had been through hell but there had been far too much talk of fire. His skin still reeked of smoke.

  “Ah, it’s tragic,” said Moira. “No one should die like that.”

  “Yeah. It’s weird. I feel so sad for him,” said Maggie. “I know he was a bad man but—”

  “He was sexually abused as a child,” said Estrada. “His mother belonged to a coven that used the kids to make pornographic films.”

  “Good Lord,” said Moira. “That just turns my stomach. No wonder the poor soul went insane.”

  “Yeah. People rarely get over things like that. Did he say anything before the fire started?” Estrada couldn’t get Hecate’s prophecy out of his mind—now two had died and Maggie had been burned.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Ah, it’s fine. You don’t need to say anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.” Primrose put her arm around Maggie and gave her a squeeze. “There’ll be time for talk tomorrow.”

  “No, I can say it. He kept apologizing for hurting me. He said that he was in love with me. He said that God had shown him a way we could be together for eternity.” She shivered.

  “Murder-suicide. Pain will make a man do strange things,” said Estrada, remembering that once he’d been told something similar. He tried to comprehend the mind of the madman who claimed to love them both. “We’ll probably never understand.”

  Moira looked at her watch. “Well, it’s near midnight, but I’d like to give Shannon a call. She must come home. I’ve already called Paddy, Eamonn, and Michael, and they’ll all be here by week’s end.”

  “Did you have all boys, Gran?” asked Maggie.

  “Two boys and three girls, but Shannon’s the only girl that survived.” She made the sign of the cross on her chest. “Bless their souls. Tell me, what time is it in Vancouver?”

  “They’re eight hours behind us, so, it’s around four p.m. But Gran, what about the feud?”

  “Well, the way I see it, Colin Burke got dup
ed by a priest who set his barn on fire and you saved his stock. The man owes you, and if he owes you, he owes us all. I doubt we’ll have any nasty business from the Burkes now.” Rising from her chair, she waved her hand. “Sleep well.”

  “Goodnight Gran.” Maggie grimaced. “Damn. Thinking about the fire’s making my arm hurt again.”

  “Let me have a look at that,” said Primrose. She unwrapped the gauze and turned up her nose. Needs a poultice of nettle and calendula. I’ve some at the cottage.” She hopped up.

  “You’re not going now?” Estrada asked.

  “Aye.”

  “But, it’s after midnight.”

  “I’m not Cinderella.”

  “Well, you can’t go by yourself.” He just couldn’t handle the idea of Primrose wandering alone through the fields in the dark. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Don’t be daft. I’ve been running through these fields in the dead of night since I was wee. Besides, did you forget? I’ve friends out there. And with Moira gone to bed, Maggie needs you here. Even if she doesn’t know it.” His angst showed on his face. “Ah, don’t go all macho on me. Holy God. What have I got myself into?”

  He jumped up nervously, knowing there was no way to tell Primrose anything. “Just be careful, and hurry. Please.”

  The whole time she was gone he felt uneasy, assuming it was because they hadn’t been apart since their initial meeting. Strange what could happen between people in a matter of hours. Maggie browsed her grandparents’ library, read some, and dozed on the couch, while he continued to pace closer and closer to the back door.

  “I’m just going outside to look for Primrose.”

  “Okay, Lover Boy. Don’t get taken by the faeries.”

  The moon shining overhead created a densely grey and shadowy world. There was no sign of Primrose. A faint rustle in the bushes broke the quiet. A long-eared owl cruised silently overhead, and then drawn by the same rustling sound, dove into the bushes beyond the hedge, and rose with a limp mouse in its beak. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.

  He shivered, then realized he’d been holding his breath. It didn’t take a scholar to know that the owl was a harbinger of death. Of course, there’d been one death already this night. Grace was dead and the ordeal finally over; still a faint film of sweat burst from his flesh. He felt raw.

  Why was Primrose taking so long? Crouching near the wooden bench outside the back door, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Something was on the arm rail—something small and dark and curiously heart-shaped. Picking it up, he examined it, and then, just to be sure, gave it a quick lick. Cinnamon heart. Just like the one he’d found in his pocket that day on the highway.

  Having never considered it before, he now thought it strange that Gabriel Grace had known about his love of cinnamon, and even stranger that he’d planned far enough ahead to have brought along the candy. Perhaps, he’d bought it that night at the shop. But, why was this one here now? Had he overlooked it when they arrived, so agitated by the fire? Surely, someone would have seen it. They had all passed by the bench on their way into the house. Rolling it between his thumb and index finger, he passed it under his nose again and inhaled. What secrets did it hold? A tiny spiced heart, it seemed benign, and yet—

  The man had come for him, just as Primrose prophesied. He’d come here to this house.

  He found a flashlight inside the back porch and began to search. Another heart was on open ground about a foot from the bench, and a couple of feet beyond that, still another. Damn. Could Grace have somehow fled through another door in the barn and escaped the fire? When they left, his body had not been found.

  Hackles raised, Estrada followed the trail of candy hearts. Skirting the edge of the woods, it stopped at the back pasture. But he strode on, moving on impulse through the cold damp grass in the direction of the ráth where Primrose had shown him faeries just hours before.

  Out in the open, a sudden wind caught at his eyes. He’d just wiped his face with the back of his hand, when he spotted a shadowy figure approaching from across the field. He assumed it was a male, but with a dark hoodie pulled down low, in the dim moonlight the features were indistinguishable. Estrada walked toward the man, then broke into a lope. He had to know. A few feet distant, he halted and turned on the flashlight.

  For several seconds, a pair of startled turquoise eyes caught in the golden beam, and then the man blinked, and lifted his hand to shield them.

  “Bastian? What are you—?”

  “Finally,” he said, relief edging his voice. “Turn out the light, man. You’re blinding me.”

  “What are you doing here?” Taken aback, Estrada realized that the flashlight was the only weapon he had besides his own hands. Bastian was the last person he expected to see here, and he needed time to think.

  “You’ve forgotten me. A week ago, you summoned me to our cave. You wanted me.”

  “You? It was you?”

  “Now all you want is her.” With his scarlet face and piercing blue eyes seeping tears, the man looked deranged. If he’d been in the barn, Maggie hadn’t seen him. “I saw you here with her.”

  He’d come from the direction of Primrose’s cottage. “Did you hurt her? What did you do?”

  “Why would I hurt her? She’s not like them.” He shrugged. “I don’t even hurt them anymore. I stopped because of you. I changed everything for you.”

  “I don’t understand,” muttered Estrada. Fragments from that night in the cave swirled through his mind as he tried to make sense of it all. I burn them with reason. I cut your hair to save your life. I love you.

  God, was that really Bastian in the cave? In the cabin? He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. He’d been right there, comforting Shannon with cups of tea, and not one of them had been the least bit suspicious. Was it because of the spell? Had all of their intuitive senses been numbed? And then he remembered his fascination with the man, the first time he opened the door.

  Had he stopped hurting women? He sounded sincere, and neither Sensara nor Maggie had been hurt after they were abducted. He’d even let Sensara go free that night. Estrada’s gut discerned a tenderness in the man’s soul that betrayed his villainy. But, after what he’d shared with him, dare he trust it? He had to know more. He had to know it all.

  “You should have told me,” he said, at last. “All this time we thought it was Grace.”

  Bastian laughed feverishly. “Of course you did.” He fingered the emerald cross around his neck, and then ripped it off and flung it into the grass. “I made you believe.”

  Alarmed by his volatility, Estrada lowered his voice. He needed to keep the man calm. “Why Grace?”

  “You don’t know him, man. He’s sick, and he was after Maggie. I saw what he did to her on the porch that night. I was there. I had to stop him.”

  Estrada was confused. If Bastian had been there that night, what had really happened? “How did you stop him? Didn’t he kidnap Maggie?”

  “No man. I took her.” He flashed his eyes flirtatiously. “I knew you’d come for her. I had to see you—”

  “Jeez,” he breathed. Daphne had been right. Maggie had only been bait. “And Sensara? Is that why you took her too?”

  Bastian shrugged. “You’re a hero. I love that about you.”

  “And my hair? Why did you—?”

  “Shave your head? I told you man, to save your life. It was way too much like my goddamn mother’s.”

  “Oh,” said Estrada, nodding.

  “Some new uncle every couple of months and none of them gave a shit about me”—he rolled his eyes— “except the pedophiles. She would…” He glanced up, shamed by the memory.

  “I’m sorry,” said Estrada, and lowered the light.

  “Don’t pity me. I don’t want your pity.” He spat in the grass. “Besides, I got her back. Burned the bitch in her bed. Unfortunately, she passed out and spoiled it, just like she spoiled everything she touched. She never knew it was me that flicked her ciga
rette off the ashtray.”

  “You wanted her to know—”

  “Wouldn’t you?” He rubbed at his eyes, looked as if he’d been crying for hours. “I needed her to know—”

  “So you kept doing it—”

  “Until that night in the cabin when we…” His voice drifted off. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I want to crawl inside your skin.” He chewed at his bottom lip.

  The obsession, it seemed, went both ways. Perhaps it was because of the spell, but seeing Bastian confess broke Estrada’s heart. As crazy as it seemed, he understood his torment, and in that moment wanted only to comfort him. Bastian was, like so many others, an abused and orphaned child, and in this world of shadows, as Primrose said, there was no black and white, only shades of grey.

  “Was your mother into Wicca?”

  “No, she was into men,” he said, grinning shyly. “Kind of like me. Gerry’s mother, though, she was big into it.”

  “Gerry?”

  “Gerry Gardner. He changed his name when he became a priest.”

  “Right. I heard about that,” Estrada said, remembering the story Nigel had related. “Some coven on the island.”

  “Yeah. That’s how we ended up in the same foster home—a couple of born-agains down near Hope.”

  “So you knew Grace before.”

  “Oh yeah, I knew him…intimately.” His cheeks pulsed and Estrada sensed another bout of rage bubbling just under this tepid surface. “Gerry was there when I arrived. He was the oldest and the strongest. At first, he just used to blame shit on us and threaten to beat us up. Then one afternoon, when they were out, he…” His voice drifted off again into images Estrada tried not to imagine. “Like I said, Gerry was sick. He taught us spells and ceremonies and he made us do things.” He spat in the grass.

  “Us?”

  “Yeah. There were three of us…and him.” Tears glazed his eyes. “I couldn’t let a man like that near Maggie.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t be.” He pushed back his hood and rubbed his hands roughly through his hair. “You wanted to know so I told you, but I don’t want your pity.”

  “Tell me the rest.”