“Sensara banished Jones from the coven.”
“That’s harsh.”
“That’s the rules. Wicca is no game as I tried to tell you.”
“Oh Dylan, do you think it’s over?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. The killer’s dead, so perhaps the charm is complete. Still, there’s Estrada to consider. At least the police understand what happened and they’re not charging him. They know he was a victim in all of this.”
“I’m just so sorry—”
“Why are you sorry? We’re the ones who spun that charm. Daphne may have inspired it, but it took the combined power of us all to manifest it. You just got caught in the ripples.”
Maggie wanted desperately to lean her head against his warm shoulder, close her eyes, and wish it all away. “Dylan, do you think that you and I could ever—”
“Once Michael comes, I’m going to Tarbert to visit my grandad. That’s just across the water.” He stood up and pointed northeast. “If you promise not to spin any more love spells—”
“Oh Dylan. I promise. I am so over that. Love spells, I mean. Look,” she said, parting her hair, “I’m even growing my natural colour back in.”
He cleared his throat. “We could pick up a box of magic from the chemist and I could help you with that,” he said, tousling her hair. Then clutching her cheek in his hand, he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth, gently at first, and then with an intensity that sent small fires bursting through her soul.
“I’ve missed you, Maggie Taylor, and I’m pleased to finally meet the real you.”
≈
“This business with Sandolino upsets me. I know how you feel about him, Michael, and it saddens me, but even more than that, I am disgusted—”
Michael glanced at his grandfather, noting the stern downward tipping eyes set so closely to the fiercely pointed nose; the thin closed lips curled to one side. Looking away, he glanced at Clive who slouched smugly across the table. People were scrambling, preparing the club for another hectic Friday night, and he hoped they would not hear what he knew was surely coming. Nervously, he stared at his watch. It was just after six.
Primrose. What a surprise she had been. Her body would have been sent for cremation by now, her final mass completed. Michael lit a cigarette knowing better than to interrupt Nigel with any sort of emotional reaction when he was in such a state. He’d returned to work two days ago, only to be razed by Sensara’s cold morning announcement: The killer is dead. Estrada caught him, but something happened. He’s in a coma.
Unable to do anything about that, now there was this.
“I am disgusted that a man would come into our club and target someone, that a man would follow Sandolino abroad, attempt to kill him, and slaughter an innocent woman in the process. That any man would set another man up in such a heinous way—” He threw back a shot of Scotch whiskey, sniffed, and sat back in his chair. “It’s abhorrent.”
“I agree. It’s bloody evil,” said Clive, “and it’s appalling that the coppers weren’t able to apprehend this psycho before it came to this. Perhaps, if Estrada had listened to me—”
Michael took a drag of his cigarette and lifted his lip in a stream of smoke. Oh to be a vampire.
“I’m pleased that you boys have had the opportunity to get to know each other. It’s never good when brothers are split apart.” He chased his shot with half a glass of beer. “At any rate, I think it’s admirable that Clive took it upon himself to seek you out, Michael—to come here on his own initiative and ingratiate himself into our little family.”
Michael caught a flicker in Nigel’s eye and responded with one slow nod of acknowledgment. There were subtleties he’d picked up over the years, nuances, shifts in tone and body language that others might not notice. Settling back in his chair, he sucked back a shot of Scotch himself, and listened.
“Michael has his vices,” continued Nigel. He was speaking to Clive now as if no one else was in the room. “There’s no doubt about it. He has a reputation lesser men might envy, but he would never hurt someone maliciously. He would never, for example, target someone, or set someone up to be beaten. Like his father, Michael has a wild heart, but it’s a good kind heart. That is why I love him and can tell him so.”
“Thank you, Nigel. I love you too. You’ve been a better father to me than any man could have been.”
“Oh please,” whined Clive. “You know what goes on here.”
“Well, that’s the strange thing. You see, I had surveillance cameras installed in the back alley after that business with Sandolino. Of course, Michael’s been off work for some time, so I can’t really comment on his activities, but we’ve been watching you, Clive.” Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Clive looked at his watch. “I didn’t want to believe what I saw, but there it was in black and white.”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“No? Let’s watch,” said Nigel. He raised his hand. “Roll it.”
Instantly, one of the white screens behind the bar lit up and an image of the back alley appeared. Clive walked into the shot. He handed a wad of bills to an addict who often crashed in the alley. The man stashed the money in his pocket, put on a pair of gloves, and took the tire iron that Clive offered.
“You paid a junkie to beat the living hell out of me?” yelled Michael.
The next scene showed Michael coming around the corner of the alley and the junkie smashing his face with the tire iron before he could raise his arms to defend himself. Michael turned to his brother. “What the fuck, Clive. What did I ever do to you?”
“You were born,” said Clive, pushing back his chair.
“Oh no,” said Nigel, raising his hand. “Our meeting is not over.” From behind the bar, the Sentries stepped forward. Flanking Clive, they put a hand on each shoulder and pushed him down hard in the chair, then remained standing on either side of him.
“I also know that you’ve been dealing drugs out of the club and trying to cast the blame on Michael. Would you care to see that footage too?”
“I had to. I needed—”
“Money. Yes, I know that too. I had hoped your motive for beating Michael was something romantic, like jealousy, but this was all about money, wasn’t it. You wanted the club.”
“You’re a doctor. Why do you need the club?” Michael was incredulous. How had he been so wrong?
“You’re not a doctor, though, are you Clive? My old friend at Cambridge told me that—”
“I flunked out, yes. That parsimonious arse wouldn’t give me one pence beyond tuition. I had to ‘understand the value of money’ by working my way through uni. Meanwhile, my big brother got everything handed to him on a silver spoon, including the shit he crammed up his nose.”
“So you are jealous,” said Michael. He’d snorted enough cocaine with Nigel over the years to know that that condemnation would get him nowhere.
“Waiting bloody tables for nights on end? Oh, fuck you all. Why should I explain anything?”
Nigel swallowed another shot of Scotch and slammed the glass down hard on the table. “I am sorry to hear how difficult your life has been, Clive. Knowing Bernard as I do, I can sympathize with you. But it did not give you the right to come here and lie to us, to have Michael beaten, and God knows what else.” He rubbed his palms together and took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you just ask?”
“You mean you would have given me money?”
“I would have considered a loan and a paid position in the club. You are my grandson.”
“Would you still—?”
“No. I am willing to give you something though. Not cash, but a free ticket…back to London.”
“But, I want to stay here.”
“That’s impossible. You have no backing, no sponsor, no job, and no funds.”
“And, I’ll have you charged with assault,” said Michael. “You’ll do time.”
“You know, I’ve always loved happy endings,” said Nigel. “I’m a romantic
myself in that way.” He walked around the corner of the bar and picked up a wad of paper. “I’m sending you both on the same plane to Heathrow. Perhaps ten hours in the air will give you boys time to sort things out.”
Nigel handed two tickets to Michael. “This is the quickest way to get you to Ireland, Michael. Your ticket is open-ended, and there is a ticket here for Sandolino. Please go and stay with him as long as it takes. Then, bring him home when he’s well enough to travel. I can’t imagine what he’s going through.”
He set a third ticket on the table. “Clive, your ticket is one way.”
≈
“Come,” laughed Primrose, taking Estrada’s hand. “Come. I must show you something.”
“But the dance—”
“The dance goes on forever, Sorcerer. This is something you must see now.”
He walked beside her through the verdant fields until they came to a cottage. “This place looks familiar,” Estrada said, gazing at the thatched roof, the whitewashed walls, the bright red double door.
“It should, my beautiful man. It’s my cottage. Do you not remember the day we came here and I brewed you a potion?”
He shook his head. “Who cares what happened before when we can dance and make love today?”
“Ah, you’ve gone right Zen on me, just as I feared.” She hung over the bottom door and looked inside. Refusing to let her go, Estrada stood behind her and rocked her in his arms. “Look here and tell me what you see.”
“That’s weird,” he said, cocking his head. “That looks like me sleeping on the red couch. And that’s—” Narrowing his eyes, he searched for memories. “That’s Michael. He looks so sad.”
“He misses you, Sorcerer. Your man there needs you back.” Estrada looked at her curiously. “It’s time. You’ve got to go back now, before you forget him completely. That’s what happens.”
“But, I don’t want to—”
“Ah, just look at him. It’s killing him to see you like this. He’s been this way for days. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep, doesn’t bathe. Just sits there despairing and holding you, weeping and waiting for you to wake up. Your man loves you.”
“But I love you,” he said, and taking her in his arms, he kissed her on the mouth. “I want to stay here with you.”
“I know you do. But you see, Sorcerer, you still have a body to return to, and return to it you must. Do you see that crockery jar on the mantle there?” He nodded. “All that’s left of me is in that jar. Just ashes, dust, and bone.”
“No,” he said, running his hands over her breasts. “You’re perfect.”
“Aye, but only in this world.” Taking his hands in hers, she kissed them and held them to her cheeks. “Now, I have a humongous favour to ask you, and I need you to promise, and I need you to remember.”
“Anything. You know I’d do anything for you.”
“I know you would. You’ve a heart as wide as the heavens and twice as pure.” Kissing his bare breast, she turned his cheek to face the door. “Do you see that envelope there, beside that jar of my bones?” He nodded. “Well, inside are two tickets to the Winter Solstice festivities at Newgrange. You remember me telling you about it?”
“Not really.”
“Well, you will. It’s where the Tuatha de Danaan interred the bones of their dead each year. It’s where my ancestors are buried. And, here’s the thing, Sorcerer. I need you to take my ashes there, in secret like, and scatter them inside the tomb on solstice morning. Can you promise to do that for me?”
“But how?” Spreading his arms, he watched them melt through the wall of the cottage.
“In that body right there.”
“But that would mean—”
“Now listen to me. Soon, they’ll be carting it off to the hospital. You’re fortunate they’ve waited this long. And, your man there can’t take much more. Himself loves you so much, he’ll soon be needing the hospital. And, then there’s Maggie, and all the others so sick with grief they can’t go on with their lives, until you’ve come home. And, then there’s your promise. Now the moon is full tonight and that means December is upon us. You know that I’ll always love you, Sorcerer, but it’s time that we two parted.”
“How can I leave you and never see you again?”
“Ah, you’ve a mind like a sieve. It’s fortunate you’re a beauty,” she said, and slapped his cheek playfully. “I am the wind,” she began in her melodic way, “and the waves of the sea, and the sunlight’s rays and the greenery. You see me all around you. I am the hawk in the air and the salmon in the stream, and I will be with you always, in all your dreams even beyond the ends of the earth.” Reaching up on her toes, she kissed his forehead. “Now you must close your eyes, and if you remember nothing else from this moment on, remember this: whenever you’re out walking in the natural world, you’ll find me in the very air you breathe, and in the essence of all sentient beings—”
Sweeping her up in his arms, he stopped her words with a deep lingering kiss.
“I see you’re after having something more substantial, Sorcerer.
“Time, Primrose. We haven’t had enough time.”
“It’s not the time you have; it’s what you make of it. Live and love, my beautiful man. It’s what you were meant to do.” She kissed him again. “And, if you’re ever in need of help, call on me and I’ll come. You’ve a faerie in your pocket now and nothing to fear.”
When she touched his heart, a sense of peace enveloped him. Like petrified stone, there was energy in his limbs though they refused to move. His eyes, their slight depressions heaped with sand, remained shut, lips sealed. He could not swallow. Had to piss.
“Drink,” he thought, and noise emerged from the back of his throat. But, when the fluid trickled in, he shuddered and spat out the vile burning liquid. “Fuck,” he growled, and coughed.
“Sorry compadre, I’ve only got whiskey. But you…you’re back.”
A body fell on him. Warm face against his breast, cool hands gripping his bare shoulders, lips brushing his neck.
“Up,” he said. He needed to move, to stand, to walk.
“Of course.”
Rubbing brought a rush of blood to his eyelids, and he opened them and focussed on the face before him. Michael—his eyes streaked red, sunken and furrowed in deep purple half-moons, his wan hollow cheeks, his greasy hair hanging lank against his shoulders.
“You look like shit, man.”
“And you, compadre, walk in beauty like the night.” Smiling, Michael touched his cheek. “I thought I’d lost you. Be forewarned: if you ever do that again, I will fucking kill you. Ah, I should have—”
“Nailed me to the floor?”
Michael laughed so hard he broke down coughing. “Thank God you haven’t lost your memory.”
“I wish I had.” Estrada glanced at the mantelpiece, shuddered and burst, unable to contain the grief that flooded his soul. “Primrose. She stepped in front of the knife. He was going to kill me, and she—” He rubbed his wet face with his hands. “You would have loved her, amigo.”
“She’s a part of you, and so I do.”
“And Bastian. He had us all fooled. Did they catch him?”
“He’s dead, man.”
“What? How?”
“He tripped…fell on a knife.”
“Jesus.” Remembering that muffled cry, Estrada’s eyes glazed over. Whatever bond the two men had shared was severed, but still, he’d hoped for a different end to their eerie liaison. Sure, Bastian had tried to kill him, but he too was a victim, of his mother and her lovers, and the priest. It was amazing, really, that he’d come as far as he had, helping John Taylor and others like him. Perhaps for Bastian, death was better than prison or the psych ward. He would finally be free of his demons.
“It’s over now, compadre.” Michael’s melancholy smile lit up the small dark cottage, and for the moment that was enough. The rest was too much to digest.
“Help me up. I have to piss.” Michael wedged his
thin shoulder beneath his armpit and lifted him. Feeling suddenly chilled, he looked down. “I’m naked.”
Michael shrugged. “It’s only us.”
Epilogue: Let Me Enfold Thee
IN THE PREDAWN DARKNESS OF DECEMBER 21, Maggie and Dylan, sat cross-legged on a tarp outside of Newgrange Neolithic tomb, and listened to their guide describe the phenomenon they were about to witness. Gazing through the crowd, Maggie saw Estrada and his best friend, Michael Stryker, huddled together beneath a tree. She was thrilled the four of them could experience this together; thrilled that when the people at Brú na Bóinne read their story in the newspaper, they’d called and offered two more tickets.
“This beautiful fertile valley, that we call the Boyne, has housed the Irish people for millennia. This tomb itself is part of a Necropolis, a cluster of tombs, where the farmers interred the ashes of their dead, once a year at this time. When the sun rises over the ridge of the valley, its rays hit the roof box just above the entrance stone, creep down the passageway, and illuminate the inner chamber.”
“The stone is carved with the same triple spirals Primrose had tattooed on her head,” whispered Maggie.
“Aye, the symbols of the mother. If you look at these three spirals together, the two at the top and one below, what do you see?”
“A woman’s body?”
“Aye. We’re born from the mother and to the mother we return. The truth is always written in the stones.”
“Winter Solstice is a time of resurrection. In the darkest days of winter, the sun brings a promise of light,” said the guide.
“I can’t believe all these people are into this,” whispered Maggie.
The grassy lawn in front of the immense circular tomb was crowded with people, all eager to experience what their ancestors had witnessed long ago. The top of the huge kidney-shaped mound was grassed over, but the side façade sparkled with white quartz. The entire mound was encircled in grey kerbstones, ninety-seven in all, decorated in spirals, chevrons, and other geometric shapes. Television cameras were set up to record the phenomenon and broadcast it to the world. This was magic.
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 31
