The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)

by Kirsten Weiss

  Hans thrashed, clawing at the serpent. Then he seemed to remember he held an axe and grasping it with both hands, he swung it upwards at the thing which gripped him. They shuddered together with the blow. Riga saw Hans’s grip tighten on the handle, then slowly release. His arms fell limp to his sides.

  The serpent evaporated like a thick fog. Hans crumpled to the ground, the axe buried in his skull.

  Chapter 29:Rubedo

  Red lights reflected off the snow-covered shore, lit Riga’s auburn hair on fire. She heard shouts, and then someone helped her sit up – Angus, his round face anxious. She trembled uncontrollably. Then more men, police. And Griff with his camera, and Sam.

  Angus ripped the tape from her mouth in a swift motion and Riga winced from the pain. “I’m sorry, Riga. I had to tell the crew… after I called the police.”

  “It’s okay,” Riga said, gasping. “You came through for me. Thanks.”

  “What happened to the mic?” he said. “I heard a crash and then it cut out. I figured that was the signal.”

  “That might have been the taser. Is it possible it overloaded your mic? But yeah, that was the signal. You did great.”

  Then Tara, screaming, a low, rough siren. “He killed himself! He just killed himself! Oh my, God, I saw him do it!”

  Sheriff King knelt down beside Riga, looked her over. “Here,” he said. “Let me get you out of those cuffs.”

  She leaned forward and King freed her hands. Sam, Griff and Angus backed away, gave them space. Riga rubbed her wrists where the cuffs had bit into her and rose unsteadily to her feet, Sheriff King’s hand firm beneath her elbow. Hans lay nearby in the snow, dark with his blood. He looked nothing like Night now. The magic had ended with his death. But his face looked familiar: a patrician-looking nose, shaved head, blue eyes, blank and lifeless. She tried to imagine it without the hatchet splitting a seam in his high forehead, and looked away, sickened.

  King gripped her shoulders. “Where’s Deputy Night?”

  Just say it, Riga told herself. But she hesitated.

  “That’s his cruiser.” The muscles in King’s face tightened, his eyes dark with worry. “The fire department is at his cabin now, trying to save it. What happened to him?”

  “Hans told me that he’d killed Night. I’m sorry.” Movement behind the Sheriff drew her eye.

  Night stood on the beach in police uniform. His figure brightened as if lit by the sun, and then faded away.

  She looked away, glad that the young deputy, at least, had found some peace. “He said he’d show me what he did to Night. He may be nearby.”

  The Sheriff swore, looked away. His vein pulsed in his jaw. After a few moments, he gazed at her directly. “What do you know?”

  She’d been thinking of how to explain it, hoped the answer she’d worked out would sound plausible. “The killer’s name was Hans. I think he masqueraded as a police officer to put his victims off their guard. He kidnapped Tara, then me. When he brought us here, he was ranting. He tried to summon a demon and then just… lost it. He seemed to think he was being attacked by something, and struck himself with the axe.” Tara would tell them Night had kidnapped her, but if all went well, they’d chalk it up to panic, confusion. It would be rough on Tara, but Riga couldn’t tell the truth. They’d never believe it.

  The Sheriff gave her a hard look, then turned and strode away. He shouted orders to the other police officers on the scene.

  Tara’s shrieks subsided to hysterical, choking sobs. Riga thought she should go to her, but couldn’t force her legs to move.

  The TV crew swept in, clustering around her.

  Angus’ broad brow puckered. “When the cops arrived, we found the cabin empty. We didn’t know where you’d gone. But the police cars have recovery systems in them. Once they realized you were in Deputy Night’s car, they were able to track you and we followed them.”

  “Where’s Pen? Is she okay?”

  “She’s with Wolfe and that Ash guy,” Angus said.

  Sam pushed forward. “Riga, what happened here?”

  “Not now, Sam.”

  “But Riga—”

  She saw Donovan, striding through the trees, his woolen coat billowing behind him, and her breath caught. Riga pushed past Sam. “Not now,” she said.

  She moved forward as if in a dream. He was okay. He was here. A white patch stood out upon his forehead and she brushed that aside to wonder about later. Donovan was home, Pen was safe, and she was alive.

  “Riga!” He drew her into a rough embrace, buried his face in her hair. They stood, silent, Riga leaning into him, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.

  “Is it over?” he asked, a low murmur against her neck. A shudder ran through her; for a moment Riga thought he was asking if they were over.

  “It’s over.”

  “Gwenn found me,” Donovan said. “She gave me your message, told me what she’d seen in the cabin.”

  She pulled away, and looked up at him. “Donovan, I’m sorry,” Riga said, defensive. “I had to—”

  “I know. He threatened Pen. Cesar called me about the photo.”

  “She’s my family, Donovan.”

  “I would have done the same… Though I might have brought a gun. Did you…?” Donovan jerked his head toward the corpse.

  “No,” Riga said quickly. “He did it to himself.” She still wasn’t sure what had taken Hans, pulled him from her at that crucial moment. It hadn’t been something Riga had conjured. She’d believed taking the stone would allow her to access her old magic, enable her to return to what she’d been, but she’d found something else instead. Or it had found her.

  Her fingertips lightly traced the white patch upon his forehead, several thick strips of tape. “What happened here?”

  He touched the bandage. “This? Ah. A bullet creased my forehead. Rocky said I went down like a sack of flour. That’s why I wasn’t able to call you.”

  “You were shot?!”

  “Not shot, just grazed. It happened at the crack house.”

  Riga yelped. “You were shot at a crack house?”

  “That’s where the woman who wasn’t Erin was.”

  “But… Why did you have to go inside it? Why couldn’t you wait for her to leave?”

  “Because I wanted to get home. It’s okay, Rocky got me out.”

  “Rocky?”

  “The detective… Forget about it. I’m fine. You’re fine. That’s what counts. It looks like we were both luckier than we deserved.

  “Your face.” Donovan lightly touched her jaw. “You’re singed on one side. Are you alright? They said there was a fire.”

  Riga put her icy palms to her cheeks. One side, where the eye’s gaze had fallen upon her, felt warm, as if she’d been sunburned. She had peeled back the veil to look at the other side, and it had seen fit to help her. Uneasily, Riga wondered what the price for that would be. She sighed and sank her head upon Donovan’s chest. “I’m fine.”

  Chapter 30: The Sun and Moon

  She met Brigitte on the roof of the casino that night, beneath its glowing red sign. It bathed the roof in weird, flame-like shadows. Before them the lake shone, molten silver in the moonlight.

  Brigitte perched on a ledge, a brooding silhouette. “He is dead.”

  Riga nodded, told her what happened. “We need to find the prima materia. It’s somewhere behind Night’s cabin. The police will be all over the place though. We may have to wait.”

  “You did not call me. You called a ghost for help.”

  Lefebvre had called to Brigitte that terrible night in Paris. She hadn’t come to his aid, had let Riga finish him. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell Brigitte that her confidence in the gargoyle had been shaken, that she was unsure how the magic worked.

  The gargoyle seemed to know what she was thinking, however. “You believe my loyalties are conflicted.”

  “We’ve been friends a long time, but… The trust was broken. Repairi
ng it will take some work.”

  Brigitte leaned forward on her perch. Her claws scratched against the stone parapet. “Good. You are becoming suspicious again. There is strength in that. We can go forward, I think.”

  Riga shook her head, smiled.

  “And you ate a piece of it, of ze stone? Are you… back?”

  “If you mean has the effect ended, yes. If you’re asking if my magic is back…” Riga crouched and held out her hand over the rooftop gravel, concentrating.

  Nothing happened.

  She stood, setting off a series of aches and twinges throughout her body. “I don’t think I was far enough along on the alchemical path for any sort of permanent change. I’ll just have to keep practicing.”

  “Still,” Brigitte mused, “it sounds as if ze genius loci protected you. That is something.”

  Pen emerged from behind the steel door to the roof. “What’s a genius loci?” She padded toward them, stones and tar paper grinding beneath her feet.

  Riga’s eyes narrowed. “A genius loci is the spirit of the place. And if there’s a camera or a mic on you…”

  Pen held up her hands in a peace offering. “Just me.” In one hand she held a piece of plastic and rubber the size of her thumb. “Angus asked me to give this to you. He said there aren’t any copies.”

  Riga took it, turned the small computer drive in her hand. “Did you listen to it?”

  “Well, duh. Of course I did. He didn’t tell me not to. How was I to know what it was? I don’t get it, Riga. Why did you go there? You knew he was a killer but you just sat there, waiting for him to make the first move. You could have been killed!”

  Riga didn’t answer, pressing her thumb against the drive’s protective rubber casing. She’d gone there expecting one of them to die, hoping it wouldn’t be her, praying the audio Angus recorded would go to the right person, at the right time. But that wasn’t for Pen to know, not now.

  Brigitte’s head swiveled toward the girl. “Riga could not murder him, though he undoubtedly deserved it. And ze police could not have helped. Could she have proven to a court that ze poor Deputy had been killed and ze thing in his place was a doppelgänger? No. Never would they have believed her. Her only choice to stop him was with a magical duel and ze bastard cheated. But it did not matter, Riga is too clever. And the genius loci – or perhaps the daimon, we may never know – dispatched him.”

  “So the only way you could get him, was to let him try to kill you first?” Pen asked, her voice rising. “That’s stupid. And that audio Angus made – you thought you’d fail; you needed this evidence to prove Night killed you.”

  “The tape was backup, Pen.” Riga pocketed the drive. “That’s all.”

  A bat spiraled above them and Riga watched its uneven path.

  Pen sat down beside Brigitte. She gnawed at one of her fingernails. Finally, Pen said, “So there really is a lake monster in Tahoe? But if that’s what ate Deputy Night, or whoever he was, then what did you and Wolfe see in the cave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why did the genius loci or daimon or whatever decide to help you?”

  It was, Riga thought, a good question.

  *****

  The call from the Sheriff came two weeks later. “We found Night’s body.” His voice sounded strained.

  Riga pressed the phone to her ear, and plunged her ski poles into the snow with her free hand. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and the forest a cool, green mantle of peace. Through the thick pines, the lake sparkled like a sapphire.

  “So he is dead,” she said. She’d known it, known that was the way Lefebvre’s dark magic worked, known it when she’d seen Night’s ghost at the lake that night. But a body made it final.

  The bindings of Donovan’s cross country skis creaked. He pushed off with one foot and glided to a halt beside her. Though they weren’t touching, she could feel his vital force, thrumming with vitality. It made her blood sing.

  “Strange thing is,” the Sheriff said, “judging from the decomposition, he’s been dead over a month.”

  A robin fluttered to a branch above her, dislodging a clump of snow that tossed the branches below, then fell to the ground with a wet splat. The bird chirped as if surprised to have caused such a commotion.

  “I’m sure the medical examiner will come up with a rational explanation,” she said.

  “I’m not.” The Sheriff hung up.

  Riga pocketed her phone, looking down at her skis. “They found Deputy Night’s body.”

  “So it’s over.”

  She looked at Donovan. His face was dusky with exertion from their trek. “Yes,” she said.

  “And the prima materia you took? Are there any lingering effects?”

  Inside her, the world breathed and she felt its turning. Mountains scraped across clear sky, their progress an echo of thunder. Tree roots strained in the earth, drinking the icy snow melt. Rocks and stones hummed in sympathetic vibration of the Earth’s passage. Donovan was there too, in her heart, a warm, vital force. She was unsure where she ended and the world began, a sensation that came and went in the days following her experience with the prima material.

  She struggled to shut it out, suddenly overwhelmed, unsure how to explain. “I feel… different but don’t know what it means yet. I called a daimon. I called for help and Tessie came.” But she hadn’t controlled the daimon. Riga had thought about this a lot, and about her responsibility in Hans’s death. She wasn’t sorry he had died, but it was somehow a relief that the daimon’s actions had been as much a surprise to her, as they had been to Hans.

  “When I reach out with my magical senses,” she said, “I can see, but what I see is different than before. I’m not sure what I can do now, what that makes me. But I’m done trying to return to what I was. I’ve melted my last doorknob.”

  “Melted doorknobs?” He raised a brow. “That’s quite the non sequitur.”

  He crushed her to him, kissing her long and hard and her knees weakened. She smelled the musk of ancient woods, tasted something primal. Someone had once told her that it never got better than the first kiss but it wasn’t true.

  “Come on,” he said, releasing her. “It’s not much farther.”

  She followed in his tracks, watching his powerful body plunge through the woods. The snow looked crystalline blue in the dying light, the trees casting long shadows. A “no trespassing” sign was posted on one of them.

  “Are we on private property?” Riga struggled to control her breathing. She wasn’t used to the vigor of cross-country and her lungs burned.

  Donovan looked over his shoulder at her without breaking his stride. “Don’t you trust me?”

  They slipped down a gentle incline to a low stone wall. Rocks had tumbled down in one section, and Donovan skied through the gap they’d left.

  “Someone should fix that,” he said.

  They wound through the trees. If there was a path, Riga couldn’t see it, but Donovan swished through the pines, unhesitating. They entered a clearing with a two story house, its bottom floor built of stone and the top of blond wood that glowed in the sunlight. Donovan circled around the rear, towards the lake shore. At the steps to a stone patio he stopped and stepped out of his skis. He steadied Riga while she unbuckled hers, then took her hand and led her up the short steps to the deck.

  A table near the low rock wall had been set with a red and white checked cloth, china, and a champagne bucket. Nearby, a stone fireplace cast a close circle of heat.

  Donovan checked his watch. “The pizza should be done.”

  He found a short wooden pizza peel leaning against the fireplace, and used it to withdraw a wheel of pizza. He placed the pizza, still upon the fat wooden spatula, on the table.

  Riga inhaled: pepperonis, tomatoes, and tangy cheese. Her stomach growled.

  “Donovan, what is this place?”

  “Like it?”

  From the deck, Riga had a wide view of forest and lake. The waters had subs
ided to a cobalt color, the mountains tinged dusty purple, their snow-capped peaks rimmed in fire. Faintly, she heard the sound of a plane fly overhead, and then silence. She looked back at the house. The wide picture windows reflected the scene in an impressionist blaze, Riga and Donovan two elongated figures that joined at the hips.

  “It’s breathtaking,” she said.

  “I’m thinking of buying it.”

  “The house?” Riga asked, startled by the idea.

  “We need a real home, Riga. The casino is no place for us.”

  “We…“ She wanted him but moving in together felt like a betrayal of herself, a cheapening of things. She knew lots of people did it and it worked out fine for them. But she wasn’t like them. “Donovan—”

  “I’m asking you to marry me, Riga.”

  She gasped.

  He took her hand, his expression serious. “When I was looking for Erin, I kept catching myself thinking – wishing – that you were with me. We should have been together. I should have stayed with you, here, in Tahoe. I’ve made so many mistakes with you. It was wrong of me to drag you to the casino, wrong to push you to move in with me without making a real commitment to you. Marry me, Riga.”

  Part of her felt a quiver of distrust in the happiness swelling within her and she told that part to shut the hell up. She knew this man and if she couldn’t take this chance with Donovan, then there was no one for her.

  “Donovan—”

  “Mr. Donovan Mosse?” a man’s voice rang out.

  Two men in blue parkas walked up the steps onto the porch.

  In one fluid motion, Donovan stepped in front of her.

  One of the men reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a leather case. He flipped it open, flashed a badge. “Federal agents. You’ll need to come with us, Sir.”

  “What’s this about?” Donovan said.

  The other man slipped a cuff on Donovan’s wrist, expertly turned him to face Riga, and clapped the other cuff on behind him. “You’re under arrest, Sir.”