The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Read online

  “Something wrong?” he said.

  She glanced behind her. The guard stood framed in the doorway, hand resting on the butt of his gun.

  Riga shot him a quick smile. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  She turned back to Cesar. “That woman knows something. She’s in the next room.”

  “Lady, there’s no one in the next room,” the guard growled.

  Cesar touched her elbow, drew her away. “Ah, it’s okay, Mike. She’s with me.”

  The guard glared at her suspiciously, then closed the door behind him.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Cesar hissed. “There’s money in there, and Mike takes his job seriously.”

  “There was a ghost in the cafeteria, an accountant. She knows something about the money laundering.”

  “A ghost,” he said tonelessly.

  “Cesar, I can see—”

  “I don’t want to know. I really don’t want to know.”

  “Ghosts,” she finished. “Her suit looked fairly modern. This one couldn’t have died long ago.”

  An odd expression crossed Cesar’s scarred face. “What did she look like?”

  “Slim build, thirties. Brown hair.”

  “June Carding.”

  “You knew her?”

  “No, but I was working here at the time, so I heard about it. That’s how Sandra got promoted from teller to accountant. She took June’s place.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “Offed herself last spring. Don’t know how. Didn’t ask.”

  “Let’s find out.” Two dead accountants in one year – Riga didn’t believe in coincidence, didn’t like the way they seemed to be piling up. Though stumbling across June’s ghost might not have been a coincidence. If her death were somehow connected to the money laundering, the investigation by the FBI might have created a ripple in the proverbial force, stirred June up, brought her out of limbo. On the other hand, for all Riga knew, the ghost could have been making nightly visits to the finance cafeteria since her death. Or maybe her appearance was connected to the dark feeling that now oppressed the casino. Or perhaps there was no connection, and it was all just dumb luck. Riga ground her teeth, feeling the breeze from chasing her own tail.

  In the penthouse, she collected her laptop, and booted it up at the desk in Donovan’s study, taking advantage of his bar, his ergonomically designed leather chair, the crackling fire. Riga took a sip from her glass of Cab, rolling the rich wine around her tongue. In her mind’s eye, she saw the accountant’s blond wig flying through the air, and the wine grew bitter on her tongue. Her hand trembled. She put the glass down.

  Stop it. Just get to work.

  June’s suicide had made the papers. A neighbor had found June at home in her car, a hose duct taped to the exhaust pipe, and threaded through her window. Riga noted the neighbor’s name. She found June’s obituary as well, and jotted down the name of her brother, who’d survived her. She checked her watch. He lived in Tampa, a three hour time difference, not yet too late to call. She found his number, but hesitated. Her call might not be welcome, and would likely be hurtful. Riga shook her head. Best to get it over with.

  She dialed.

  It rang.

  “Hello?” The man’s voice was low, cautious.

  “Mr. Carding?” She went to the window, the lights twinkling at her from across the lake. A bat fluttered and whirred outside.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name is Riga Hayworth. I’m a private investigator calling from Stateline, Nevada. Is this a convenient time to talk?”

  Two bats joined the first, cartwheeling through the darkening night, and Riga idly wondered why they didn’t hibernate in winter.

  “Yes,” he finally said. “What is this about?”

  “I’m calling about your sister, June.” She waited, hoping he would go on for her.

  The receiver clicked down.

  Dial tone.

  Riga felt an irrational guilt, and pushed it aside. She needed to get out of this mood. Stretching like a cat, Riga crossed to the wide space behind the leather couch, and ran through her tai chi, shortening her steps to avoid the floor to ceiling bookcase. When she was finished, the energy sang through her veins.

  She’d figure this out. She’d get her answers.

  But Riga wondered if they’d be answers she wanted to hear.

  Chapter 6

  Head bent, Riga pressed her hands against the wall of the tiled shower. Beneath the beat of the steaming water, her muscles loosened, released. Other, deeper, knots remained. She couldn’t stop the replay in her head of Sandra’s murder, couldn’t stop imagining the horror if it had been Donovan. She had to stop thinking about it.

  Steam swirled around her, and she imagined she could see each particle, drifting in a slow dance.

  The movement stopped.

  She raised her head, the motion cutting a swathe in the steam.

  A shiver crawled up her naked spine, her flesh pebbling.

  What. The. Hell.

  She cupped her hand, drawing it through the mist, cutting a trail through the motionless steam, and the hairs lifted on the back of her neck.

  Magic. Magic here. Magic that wasn’t hers.

  And death. Cold things, rotting things. Things she didn’t want to see.

  She wasn’t alone.

  Riga drew the fogged shower door open, and peered out. Her muscles quivered, fear and anger indistinguishable, hot and red and snarled.

  A bent figure with a beard the color of tarnished silver sat upon the closed toilet seat. The hem of his ebony robes pooled upon the tile floor. A hood cast his face in shadow, and Riga got a sense of deep crags and glittering eyes, without actually seeing any of these things. Her gaze dropped to his hands. The flesh was gray and desiccated.

  Riga stared, her rage building, a defensive wall against the horror. She hadn’t warded Donovan’s penthouse, had left it open to any magical being that wandered by.

  And he was magic. Big magic that weakened her knees, set her heart thumping. She could feel it flowing from him, changing the pressure of the air.

  Her voice shook. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Hell?” The creature wheezed, its shoulders shaking, its laughter ringing of empty canyons and parched forests.

  Her teeth chattered. There was something familiar about him, something that repelled her. Riga snaked her hand through the open door, and snatched a towel from the heated rack. She wrapped it around her. “Get out.”

  “Why? You are not busy now, just standing there, letting the water run down your back, and feeling sorry for yourself.”

  Dammit, dammit, dammit. The creature was fae, and it had gotten inside her head. Cold fear snaked through her gut. She had to get him out, take back control.

  “It’s cramped in here.” She swallowed. “Why don’t you wait outside? I’ll be out in a minute.”

  He stood, rising up and up, his head bowing before it touched the ceiling. “One minute then.” He blinked from the room.

  She toweled off roughly, and slipped into her thin cotton robe, water still dripping down her back, down the insides of her thighs. Draping the towel over her shoulder, she opened the door and stepped into the softly lit bedroom, light from the fireplace flickering on its wood-paneled walls. This was Donovan’s place, his aerie. The fae’s presence here was an invasion, one she’d invited.

  The fae stood facing the window with its wide view of the lake, the reflection of the quarter moon a shining trail in the inky water. His feet were bare upon the geometric rug, and stained with dirt.

  “What lovely trees these are,” the fae said. “So different from where I come from.”

  She followed his gaze, toward the irregular silhouettes of the pines. “Where do you come from?”

  He turned slowly toward her. “You know the answer.”

  She tossed her towel onto the bed’s caramel-colored duvet. “I’m a detective, not a mind reader. Why are you here?”


  “I hold your marker. In exchange for it, you will assist me.”

  She would, would she? Riga reigned in her fury, reminded herself that angering a fae would have repercussions. She couldn’t afford to react.

  “My marker?”

  “You accrued a debt to the spirit of this place when it took a life on your behalf.”

  Riga’s heart sank past her toes. She’d known this was coming, but never suspected the consequences would come this thick and fast. The spirit of the lake had recently saved her from a killer, and that sort of favor never came free.

  “But you’re not the spirit of this place,” she rallied. “You’ve admitted as much. How do I know you have that marker, that you’re telling me the truth?”

  The world went dark.

  Cold.

  Fear lanced through her. The fae had done something, and she was… where? She couldn’t tell where her skin ended and the world began, and fought down her rising panic. She was thinking, so she was alive. Good. With her magical senses, she reached above and below, drawing the hot and cool energies to her center.

  Stars, a wavering path, unraveled like a ribbon before her, and she sagged with relief.

  She squinted. No, not stars, lights, the lights from the opposite shore.

  Cold seeped through the soles of her feet. Dizzy with terror, she swayed, her robe whipping about her bare legs. Her wet hair was ice plastered to her head and neck. Riga stood outside, tottering on the narrow railing of the penthouse balcony, the black lake before her, her toes inches from a fifteen story plummet.

  One foot slipped beneath her on the snow dusted rail.

  Too frightened to scream, she windmilled her arms, overbalanced.

  Time stopped.

  The gargoyle soared up from beneath her, struck her in the chest, and Riga gasped, fell backward, landed hard on the stone balcony. She tumbled to a halt against the fire pit.

  Brigitte landed beside her, claws scrabbling on the flagstones. “Riga,” the gargoyle rasped, “are you free of that creature’s influence?”

  Shakily, Riga scrambled to her feet. Her footprints led in a trail from the door to the balcony. She couldn’t remember making them.

  He’d compelled her. The S.O.B. had compelled her.

  She rubbed her arms, and tried to get hold of her emotions.

  The fae stood outside the open door, impassive. “She is free, familiar.” He cocked his head and glided onto the balcony, circling Brigitte, leaving no prints in the snow. “But what an odd creature you are. I do not believe I have ever seen the like.”

  “Ha!” The gargoyle tossed her head. “Riga, send this thing away. Banish him!”

  The fae ignored Brigitte. “You two are bound together by old magic. Do you not wish to be free?”

  “No.” The gargoyle turned her back on him. “Do not believe his hints and promises, Riga.”

  Riga didn’t respond, focusing on her breath, collecting her thoughts.

  The gargoyle hopped onto the fire pit. “Do not listen to him!”

  Riga rubbed her chest, sore where Brigitte had struck it. “He’s piqued my interest.” The fae’s control over her had proven his point. “What are you?”

  He seemed to study her from beneath his cowl. “You may call me Ankou.”

  “If you’re done with your demonstration, let’s talk inside.” The snow on her bare feet burned. Ice crusted her robe, the cold seeping through the thin cotton.

  He stepped aside, allowing Riga to pass.

  She motioned him toward a wide, mission-style rocking chair, and he sat.

  Brigitte soared through the open door, and landed on the dresser. Riga closed the wood and glass door behind her, vigorously wiping her feet free of snow on the rug. Her toes were numb. She hurried to the stone fireplace, and grabbed a log from the basket on the hearth.

  “No fire,” Ankou said quickly.

  She dropped the log in its basket, and it thunked against the other pieces of wood. “What do you want?”

  “My servant in this world is under threat. She is here, at this lake, and requires your protection.”

  Riga pulled her robe more closely about her, and sat upon the edge of the bed. “Like I said, I’m a detective. Bodyguard is a different skill set.”

  Ankou frowned, the crevasses in his face deepening. “A bodyguard?” His face cleared. “Ah, I see. One who guards someone else’s body. But guarding is only part of what is required. We do not know where the threat comes from. I require you to determine who the villain is, before he or she strikes, and protect my servant.”

  Brigitte snorted, ruffling her stony feathers.

  “Why would someone want to harm your servant?” Riga asked.

  His robe, fine as spun cobwebs, rippled about his shoulders. “Darkwoods has wealth, power, others want it... The usual family squabbles. In that sense, not so much is different between your world and mine.”

  “But why do you need my help? You’ve got power in this world – you’ve demonstrated that.”

  His head tilted back, as if studying the stained glass ceiling lamp. “That is not important. I require your assistance, and you are bound to supply it.”

  “I have another obligation. It takes precedence.”

  Slowly, he lowered his head, turning his gaze upon her.

  Riga’s breath caught, and she had that odd sensation of time slowing, stopping, of the quiet of death.

  And then he nodded, and the spell broke. “I see it, a golden tie I cannot break. We will bargain.”

  “Bargain?” Her mouth went dry. There were rules to live by, rules that kept you alive: don’t go to the ground in a fight, don’t get in an attacker’s car, don’t bargain with the fae.

  “There will come a time, soon, when the life of your man will hang in the balance, when I will be called to come for his soul. In exchange for your help, at that time, I will take another.”

  She slipped to the floor, her back against the bed, legs crumpled awkwardly beneath her. No, not Donovan, no. Her head went light. “Mine,” she whispered.

  “No. You have not earned the right to make that sacrifice.”

  “Riga, you cannot,” Brigitte hissed.

  She couldn’t lose him. Not now. And for a moment she imagined making the agreement, saving Donovan. But not at that cost. Not at murder. He wouldn’t want that. He couldn’t live knowing it was at the price of an innocent, and she couldn’t live and not confess.

  “It is done,” Ankou said.

  She struggled to her feet. “No! I didn’t agree. I didn’t say anything!”

  “You spoke to the universe; it heard.”

  “I take it back. It was just a thought. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t mean it.”

  He was on her in a blur and she was on the floor. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Futilely, she grasped the skeletal fingers that squeezed her neck.

  “You break our agreement?”

  “No,” she croaked out.

  He released her.

  She rubbed her neck, gasping, as the room swam into view. “I’ll do it. Just don’t—don’t take anyone. I’ll do it.”

  “The bargain has been struck.”

  But which bargain? The one she’d asked for, or the one he’d suggested? Unable to affect the outcome, she realized she didn’t want to know.

  “Who is this Darkwoods?” she asked.

  “As I said, my servant.”

  “Is that her name in your world, or in mine?”

  “Ah. I do believe she has another name on this plane,” Ankou said. “No matter. My time here is short. We shall go to her now, and you will meet her.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  “That’s a problem,” Riga said. “There are people outside who’ll follow me to your servant’s home. And I don’t think it’s in Darkwoods’ best interests if they find her. Or you.” Could things get more complicated? She stared without really seeing at the silver-framed photo on the dresser. The colors were fad
ed as the memory – Donovan as a child with his parents, the photo taken weeks before they’d died, a memento mori. Life didn’t happen on the timetable you wanted.

  Dismissively, the fae waved his hand. “You know how to cloak, of course?”

  “Yes, but my cloaking spell only keeps me hidden from people not looking directly for me.”

  “What a useless bit of magic.” His tone grew cunning. “I could teach you a stronger spell.”

  The gargoyle growled. “No, Riga. The price will be too high. It is already too high.”

  Riga slid from the high bed, pulled her clothing from her leather satchel. The blouses and slacks were wrinkled, and she regretted now being so haphazard with her packing – the least of today’s regrets.

  “I don’t think so, Ankou. I’ll change, and we’ll figure something out.”

  “But Riga,” Brigitte protested. “What about ze reporters? What about me?”

  In spite of everything, Riga bit back a laugh. For the gargoyle, it always boiled down to Brigitte.

  She bundled her clothing in her arms, and marched to the bathroom. “Sorry, Brigitte. I don’t have much choice.”

  “You always have a choice.” Brigitte hopped after her, ungainly, wings fluttering.

  Riga shook her head, and gently closed the bathroom door. Yeah, there was always a choice, but she didn’t like the look of door number two.

  Chapter 7

  Riga stood, swaying, one hand upon the hood of her silver Lincoln. She was at the back of the casino’s well-lit lot, beside a stand of pines. Unsure how she’d got there, she knew only that Ankou was responsible, and patted her clothing, reassuring herself: pea coat still buttoned, scarf still knotted about her throat, her watch...

  She frowned.

  She’d lost time. Fifteen minutes, gone.

  The fae glided into the trees. Shadows gathered around him on the snow. He knelt, his robes pooling at his feet. His lips moved, and she heard the soughing of the wind.

  A wheel creaked, metallic and uneven, and a chill rippled down her spine.

  She whipped her head around, but the lot was empty and still.

  Nothing. It was nothing.

  Liar.

  The sound was something.

  He nodded, as if satisfied, and returned to her. “Give me your hand.”