The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (12 page)

“Well?” Riga said.

“Heh.   The Great Emperor Heh.  That is the only name I know.”

Riga’s lips tightened.  Her adversary had a magical name and the demon hadn’t gotten past it to learn his true name.  “What did Heh look like?”

“Like you.  Tall.  Human.”

Riga grimaced.  To demons, humans probably really did all look alike.  She pressed him.  Was Heh as tall as Riga?  Taller?  Was his hair lighter or darker?  The demon replied in vague equivocations.   

Brigitte snickered.

Exasperated, Riga began the banishing ritual. 

“Wait!  Is that it?” the demon protested.  “Do you not want me to do anything for you?”

“Yeah,” Riga said.  “Go away.”

With a popping sound, it vanished.

She felt renewed dampness beneath her nose and went to the kitchen, grabbed a paper towel from the roll and blotted the skin beneath.  The towel came away stained red.  “I’m bleeding,” she said, shocked.

“Yes.  It began during your battle with ze demon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Would it have helped?  No!  It would have made you doubt yourself.  Magic is a triumph of ze will.  There is no room for doubt in this business, Riga!  Which is why most magicians are arrogant so and so’s,” she added as an aside.

Riga poured herself half a glass of Zin from an open bottle, her hands shaking.  A drip of crimson wine slid down the outside of the glass, pooled along its base.  “I need to summon Sarah’s ghost.  She may have a demon attached to her as well.”

“No!  Absolutely not!  If there is a demon, you’ve been weakened.  You won’t be able to deal with it.”

“I can’t leave her to a demon.”

“She can wait a day.  You have ze living to worry about as well.  What about Donovan?  Your niece?  Ze killer’s future victims?  You must be smart about this, Riga.”

Riga swore, took another drink of the wine.  Brigitte was right, dammit.

“Tomorrow, Riga,” Brigitte said warningly.

“Yes, yes, tomorrow.” Riga tilted her head back, took a drink.  She ached all over.  “Something about this doesn’t make sense.”

“Only one thing?”

“Lynn was killed about a month ago, the same time I got to Tahoe.  If this was some grand scheme of a servant of Lefebvre’s, how did he get here so quickly?  I didn’t even know I was coming to Tahoe.  And I lost my magical abilities less than six weeks ago.  How could he possibly have found out and organized all this?  It’s not as if my little problem created a disturbance in the force.”

“We know ze killer is associated with Lefebvre,” Brigitte said.  “Perhaps he merely acquired his books, or perhaps ze relationship was something stronger.  The real question is, is his presence here a coincidence or did he have some foreknowledge of your arrival?  And to you, I ask: does it matter?  Will this knowledge help you find him and defeat him?”

“The more I know about him the better.”

“You know who ze Great Emperor Heh is, of course?” Brigitte asked.

“Yeah.  It’s the fourth card in a tarot deck – the Emperor, Sun of the Morning, Chief Among the Mighty,” Riga said, quoting Crowley.  “And the Hebrew letter associated with it is Heh.”

“And knowing this is our killer’s magical name, are you closer to finding him?”

“Not really, though it does display a certain level of arrogance on his part.”

“The great alchemist, Nicholas Flamel said, ‘Waste not thy time in searching out secrets.  Secrets will reveal themselves to you when the time is right.’”

Riga snorted.  “Flamel never would have made it as a metaphysical detective.”

Chapter 13: Unlucky

Riga watched the paper sigil she’d drawn for Lndmrak burn in the kitchen sink.  Its edges curled and the marks she’d drawn upon it seemed to glow more brightly before it blackened to char.  She turned on the tap, washing the ashes down the drain, and her cell phone rang upon the countertop.  Her heart gave a little jump.  Donovan?  She checked her phone, and didn’t recognize the number.  Reluctantly, she turned down the radio; Miranda Lambert was singing about unloading her ex’s baggage.  After Riga’s encounter with the demon, she felt like she’d unloaded some baggage of her own.

“Hello?” Riga said.

“Riga?  It’s Tara.  Can you…?”  She made an ugly, gulping sound.  “You’re a detective, right?  A real detective?”

“Yes,” Riga said cautiously.  Was Tara crying?

“Can you come to the café?  Something’s happened.  I need your advice.”

“What’s happened?” Riga asked.  “Are you safe?”

“Yes, yes, I think so.  It’s–”

The line dropped.  Riga dialed the number.  The call failed.  She waited, hoping Tara would call back.  She didn’t.  Riga looked at her phone thoughtfully, then dialed Donovan.

“Riga,” he said, his voice warm with relief.  “Success?”

She felt a sting of guilt.  Of course, he’d been worried; she should have called him immediately after she’d banished the demon, not messed around cleaning and listening to music.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly.  “It worked.  I’ll be home soon.”  She stopped, suddenly aware of what she’d said.

Donovan didn’t respond; he’d caught it too.  Home.

Riga rushed to fill the gap.  “But I have to stop at the Fortune Teller’s Café first.  Tara, the owner, called and asked me to come over.”

“Trouble?  I can meet you there.”

“No.  Thanks.  Tara sounded upset.”  She leaned against the counter.  “I should go alone.”

There was another long silence on the other end.  “Right.  This is new territory for me.” He paused.  “I’ll see you when you get home.”

Home.  He wasn’t going to let her slip go by. 

Riga hung up, looked to Brigitte, perched upon the counter. 

The gargoyle smiled in a self-satisfied way.  “Home is where ze heart is.”

“Don’t you start,” Riga warned.

Riga sped through the rest of the cleanup, and turned off the lights.  She stepped out onto the porch, into the cone of light from the bulb above the door. 

A dark figure shifted on the porch steps, and she reared away.

“Whoa, it’s okay.  It’s just me.”  Deputy Night stepped into the light, hands raised.  His hair was damp and curled about his ears and he wore a heavy leather jacket with a thick red scarf wrapped twice around his neck.  It looked like it had been handmade, with uneven, loopy stitches.  From a sister?  A lover?

She gripped her keys between her fingers, arranging them between her knuckles to strike, to gouge.  “Deputy Night?”

“Steve.  I’m off duty.”

“What are you doing here?”

He jammed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, hunching his shoulders.  “I just wanted to make sure you were okay after your run-in with Reverend Carver.”

She stared at him, silent.

He flushed.  “And to ask you something.”  Night looked pointedly at the door.  “Got a minute?”

Riga ignored the hint, leaned up against the wooden railing.  If he wanted to talk, they could do it outside.  The cold might shorten the process.  A low growl issued from below them and Riga started away from the banister.

“What the…?” Night backed up against the door.

A brindled dog slunk up the stairs, head lowered, growling.  The thing was as big as Night and shaggy as a bear – the dog she and Donovan had seen earlier?  It was also scary as hell.

Night was on his toes now, arms raised.  He laughed weakly.  “And me without my pepper spray.”

“Heel,” she commanded, pulling the voice deep from within her chest.

The dog sat down and cocked its head inquiringly at her. 

She reached slowly into her bag and pulled out a pack of beef jerky, broke off a bit, fed it to the animal.  It devoured it in one snap of its jaws, then snuffled at her hand.

Night relaxed, his hands dropping to his sides. The dog’s head swiveled toward him, and it bared its teeth. 

Hastily, Riga fed it another strip of jerky.  “Good boy.  Or whatever you are.  That’s a good dog.”

“Christ, what is that thing?”

“It’s hard to say in the dark, but I think it’s a Caucasian Sheepdog, an Ovcharka.  The Russian military uses them.  They’re pretty rare.”

“Good.”

“What did you want to talk about, Deputy?”

He edged away from the dog.  “I checked on that French guy, Lefebvre, with the Paris police.  Sounds like he was a nasty piece of work.  You really think one of his servants did this?”

“It’s a theory,” she said cautiously.

“So why would one come here?  Now?”

That was the question.  Night was smart, Riga realized.  She’d have to be careful.  She looked down and ruffled the thick fur around the dog’s neck.  There was no collar; the fur was matted as if he’d been roaming free a while.

Night waited, then when he saw Riga wasn’t about to respond, said, “You said Lefebvre tried to call a demon on you.  What did he think would happen?”

“He thought I would die.”

“But you didn’t.  What went wrong?”

Riga raised an eyebrow.  “What went wrong was Lefebvre was a psychopath.  You don’t really think he could call a demon, do you?”

“No!  Of course not,” he said quickly.  “But you hear about the Catholic church exorcising demons, possession…  There has to be something to it.”  Night shifted his weight and the porch boards creaked beneath him.  “And if it is one of his people who’s doing this, I need to understand what’s driving him.  Why do you think he’s killing these women?”

“Power.  He thinks the ritual killing will give it to him.”

“What sort of power?”

“Magical, but ultimately it comes down to power over others, the power to make things happen.”

The dog bumped against her leg, a gentle nudge that nearly knocked her off her feet.

“How would he get it?” Night asked.

“Lefebvre was a necromancer.  He used death to fuel his magic and in his sick little world, you got a lot more power from sacrificing a person than a chicken.  Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Night nodded, looked down at his feet.  “The Parisian cops told me when they went through the ruins of his house, after the fire, the place was a real horror show.  Bodies in the basement, the works.”

Riga paled.  “There were other people there?  Killed in the fire?” 

A wave of nausea rose from her stomach.  She swallowed, trying to control it.  Lefebvre had started the fire, but it had been a result of their fight and she hadn’t tried to stop it.  The destruction of his home and his terrible works seemed like a neat solution at the time.  She hadn’t known there’d been other people inside; she’d been too busy fighting and running.  Riga gripped the banister behind her, swaying on her feet. 

The dog whimpered, lay down at her feet gazing up at her.

“No, they were already dead, dismembered.  That didn’t happen in the fire.  Hey, are you okay?”

She sagged against the banister.  She wasn’t responsible, thank God.  Riga nodded.  “Dismembered… post-mortem, I hope?”

“Don’t know.  You don’t look so good.”

“It just made me think.  Someone came after me with an axe once.  It really sucked.”  Actually, it had been an angry mob, but Night didn’t need to know that.  Riga had never liked slasher movies but had developed a virulent hatred of them since.  Torture porn.

Night’s brow creased.  “You were in Europe then, weren’t you?  When Lefebvre’s house caught fire?”

“Romania.  Anything else?” she asked.

“Why?  Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?”

“The casino.  I’ve got a date.”

His face took on a shuttered expression.  “Mr. Mosse,” he said neutrally.

Riga nodded.  She straightened away from the banister.

“How’d you get involved with a guy like him?” he blurted.

Riga’s body stiffened at the remark.  “People keep asking me that.”

“Hey, I understand what he sees in you.” His gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck.  “But you seem like a straight shooter.”

“And Donovan Mosse isn’t?”

“There’s a lot of organized crime in gaming, money laundering.”

“What makes you think that’s going on at his casinos?”

He shrugged, and took a step off the porch, putting them at eye level.  “Be careful, Miss Hayworth.  I’d hate to see something happen to you.”

Riga bit back a retort as he walked to his pickup truck.  Her breath came in angry puffs, steaming the air.  Organized crime my ass, she thought.

Chapter 14: Nine Lives

The dog leapt to its feet and stared intently into the darkness.  With a howl it bounded off the porch and down the street in the opposite direction of the disappearing taillights of Night’s pickup.  Riga shook her head.  Dogs. 

She got into her car and pulled slowly out of the drive.  There wasn’t enough snow to warrant chains and her Lincoln Town Car didn’t have snow tires.  But the roads could ice over quickly and Riga wasn’t used to driving in slick conditions. 

The headlights of a car parked on the street behind her flashed on.  Riga’s eyes flicked to the rear view mirror, marking its progress as it followed her onto the highway.  It was too dark to make out what kind of car it was.  Her hands tightened on the wheel.

When she turned into the parking lot of the Fortune Teller’s Café, the car continued past.  Riga realized her shoulders were hunched to her ears and tried to relax.  She parked, then sat in the car for a moment, rolling her head, releasing the muscles in her neck, feeling twinges along her spine.  Riga had controlled the demon, but there had been a physical cost. 

She stepped out of the car and her feet skidded out from under her.  Riga gasped and caught herself on the door before she could hit the ice.  Pain arced through her torso.  It felt like she’d been kicked there and she probed the spot gingerly with her gloved hand. 

She glanced around, embarrassed, but no one was there to see her pratfall.  The fluorescent ceiling lights shone in the Fortune Teller’s Café, and Christmas bulbs glowed in a cheerful blur of red and green behind the steamy glass.   But the café looked empty, and the dark shop windows next door gave the place a deserted aura.  A beat up red Honda crouched forlornly at the rear of the lot.  Tara’s car?

Riga removed a tactical flashlight from her leather satchel and carefully walked across the lot, wary of another slip on the ice.