Blood Rite (Maggie Devereaux Book 2)
Page 31
At the bottom of the stairs he stepped out onto the earthen floor of the cavernous chamber. Stepping slowly at first he scanned the perimeter and then made his way resolutely to the center of the ruined foundations, in the middle of the recently excavated concentric stone rings.
Here he crouched down, careful not to touch his suit pants to the ground, and inspected the stained earth. He extracted a hand from a pocket and ran a finger through the dirt. Then he picked up a handful of the loose earth, rubbing it between his fingers and holding it up for closer inspection. Once satisfied, he tipped his palm and let the soil pour down again past his face, with its inscrutable black eyes, neatly trimmed goatee, and long mottled scar running the length of his left cheek.
He stood up again and brushed the dirt off his hands. He tugged his suit coat back into position and straightened his tie. Then, looking again at the stained earth, he spoke.
“I know you were here, Maggie,” said Devan Sinclair. “But where are you now?”
END
The following is a preview of Last Rite, the next Maggie Devereaux mystery.
*
1. Rude Awakening
Her name was Maggie Devereaux.
She had the worst headache of her life.
And something smelled awful.
Those were the only things she was sure of as the fog blanketing her mind began to recede. She opened one eye. The light stabbed into her brain like a saber. She squinted against the pain and tried to recognize her surroundings.
She had no idea where she was, not specifically. Generally, though, she was reasonably certain she was in a hotel room. The ugly, patterned bed cover and the nondescript watercolor prints on the wall confirmed that.
Forcing open the other eye, she stared up at the white stucco ceiling. There was no way she was going to try sitting up. Not yet. Not if she didn’t want her stomach to eject itself through her nose.
She rolled her head to the side to catch a glimpse out of the window whose existence was suggested by the light coming from that side of the room. Sheer drapes blocked the details of the view, but her eyes rested on something else anyway.
The note on the pillow next to her.
She started to prop herself up onto one arm, but decided against it as her brain threatened to explode through her skull. Instead, thick clumsy fingers grappled with the paper, then raised it toward the ceiling so she could read it safely from her necessarily prone position.
Maggie,
1. I don’t know where the Book is either.
2. You didn’t do it.
3. Neither did I.
-Sinclair
Maggie closed her eyes again and tried to will away the throbbing between her temples. It didn’t work.
Book. What book? She liked books.
Sinclair. She knew a Sinclair, didn’t she? Sinclair Lewis? That sounded familiar. He wrote a book, right?
Images started to float through her mind. A blond man with a goatee and a scar on his cheek. He was handsome. A dark-haired man with bright blue eyes. He was even more handsome. An older couple in a shop. A policewoman. A baby. Two babies. A castle. A university. A book.
The Book!
She sat straight up in the bed.
“Arrrgh!” She doubled over again into a fetal position. The pain radiated down her spinal cord and into every nerve of her body.
What had she done to herself that made her entire body hurt from the inside out?
The agony subsided enough for her to recall her last thought: the Book. Her Book. The Dark Book of Rites and Damnation. Instinctively, her hand reached out for the tome. Part of her knew it wouldn’t be there, but she still wasn’t firing on all cylinders, and she usually kept the book close at hand. She remembered that much, although she was having trouble remembering why. So when her hand confirmed the ancient book wasn’t lying next to her atop the hotel bed, she wasn’t sure where else it might be.
‘I don’t know where the Book is either.’
She opened her eyes—slowly—and surveyed the room again. She had to get up. The Book was missing. She didn’t know where it was, and neither did Sinclair, whoever he was. Who was Sinclair? Not Sinclair Lewis. Not an author. But something about books? A librarian? No. And did he know about the Book too? She thought no one knew.
No, someone else knew. Someone knew about the Book. Or the magic.
Magic? There’s no such thing as magic. Her own mother had told her that once.
Maggie closed her eyes again and took in a deep breath. She was lost, in pain, and confused. Handsome blond man knew about her book. Someone else knew about her magic. And she didn’t even know what magic he knew about.
It was a “he.” He knew about the magic.
The cuter guy. The dark-haired one with the blue eyes and the sparkling smile.
Iain.
Iain!
And then the memories came flooding back, every one of them a hot poker in her brain, setting fire to her synapses. Her mother’s death. Her grandmother’s death. Going to Scotland.
Meeting Iain.
Studying under Professor Macintyre. Meeting Kelly Anderson. The murders. Sergeant Warwick. Inspector Cameron.
Devan Sinclair.
The kidnapped baby. The trip to Wales. The trip to Ireland. The castle. Sarah MacKenzie.
The Dark Book.
The magic.
Iain.
“Oh, Iain,” she moaned. The last clear memory she had was of Iain walking away from her, ignoring her tears, ignoring his name as she called after him. Walking away from her. Forever.
That memory hurt more than the spikes in her skull and she finally managed to pull herself into a sitting position. She lowered her head into her hands and tried to remember where she was. But it was no use. Her last memory was of Iain walking away beneath the castle in Visegrád. So, she must be in Hungary.
She raised her head and looked toward the nightstand. There was definitely a telephone and some hotel stationery there. She also definitely couldn’t read it from that distance without her glasses that were also resting atop the nightstand. A tender scoot and an outstretched hand later she was pulling her glasses on and tucking her thick auburn hair behind her ears. She picked up the small notepad next to the phone.
‘Hotel Regency. Edinburgh.’
Edinburgh. Of course.
She lowered her head into her hands again. She had absolutely no memory of travelling back to Scotland, and certainly not to Edinburgh.
Why was she in Edinburgh?
How had she gotten there?
How long had she been there?
And really, what was that horrible smell?
The pain in her head, and the accompanying nausea, seemed to be subsiding as she remembered things. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall how she’d ended up in a hotel room in Edinburgh. That bit of amnesia remained, and with it a dull throbbing in her head and a tender uneasiness in her gut. Still, she felt better enough that she thought she could make it to the bathroom. Some water on her face and a cool washcloth on her neck sounded like just the ticket. Besides, she really had to pee.
Maggie stood up gingerly and extended a hand to the wall. One eye open, she slowly felt her way to the bathroom. As she approached, at least she thought she knew what the smell was. Along with everything else she’d forgotten, she must have forgotten to flush. She flicked on the bathroom light.
“Ahhhhhhh!” Her own scream split her aching head right down the middle.
But she didn’t care about the pain.
She only cared about the blood-soaked dead man in the bathtub. And the subsequent pounding on the door.
“Police! Open up!”
*
LAST RITE
About the Author
Stephen Penner is an author and artist living in the Seattle area. He writes a broad variety of fiction, including thrillers, science fiction, and children’s books. In addition, he enjoys drawing and painting.
For information on his la
test books, visit his website: http://www.stephenpenner.com