“A black lodge in Doyle? Don’t you think you could have led with that?” I had mad respect for Mrs. Steinberg, but honestly. She’d dropped that intel for maximum dramatic effect.
The old lady set down her e-cigarette. “Not a black lodge. The Black Lodge. The one from San Francisco that’s been causing us so much trouble.”
“How do you know?” Riga asked quietly.
The old lady reached into her black handbag on the table and pulled out another square business card. She flung it onto the stained tablecloth. “Because the cheeky devils introduced themselves.”
My sisters and I shared a look.
“I know,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “They walked up to me, bold as brass, and they... and they...”
“They what?” I prompted and glanced at Riga. Why had Mrs. Steinberg hired her? Riga didn’t look that tough. She couldn’t be more than five-six in her low-heeled boots. Her eyes were odd—a sort of browny-purply. What sort of magic did she have?
“They brought flowers.” Mrs. Steinberg bristled. “Irises. My favorite.”
I rolled my eyes. “That does sound intimidating.” Looking at the tablecloth, I grounded myself and extended my senses toward Riga. I felt power, cold and empty. And yes, I know empty doesn’t exactly sound powerful. But hers was the empty of space, vast and deadly and terrifying.
I looked up. Riga was watching me.
She nodded, picked up the second business card and frowned. “What did they want?”
“They told me this was a courtesy call, to alert a fellow magician to their presence.”
Riga’s brows lifted. “Old school.”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “I haven’t had a proper magical introduction since the sixties. That decade ruined everything,” she muttered.
“Magical introduction?” I asked.
“A sort of peace offering when you enter another magician’s territory.” Riga rubbed the back of her head, ruffling her auburn hair. “Since magicians tend to notice each other, it’s done to prevent unnecessary battles.”
“They even wished me a happy summer solstice,” Mrs. Steinberg grumbled. “And it’s not for over a week.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“They knocked on my door last night,” Mrs. Steinberg said.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, exasperated.
“It was late and my program was on.”
Mrs. Steinberg had a program? “Why didn’t you call me afterward?”
“Because I fell asleep in my chair.” The old lady’s voice glittered with ice.
“Does this mean they’ll be introducing themselves to us, too?” Karin asked.
“Not necessarily,” Riga said. “If they’re following the old traditions, they only need to make themselves known to the eldest magician. It’s expected he or she will get the word out.”
“As I just did,” Mrs. Steinberg said testily.
“We sensed dark magic this afternoon, right before Mac was shot,” I said. “That must have been the lodge, casting a spell. Because it sure wasn’t us.”
Lenore fiddled with one sleeve of her flowy tunic. “Do you think… Could Mac’s death have been a sacrifice to power the magic?”
Riga nodded, her expression tightening. “It’s possible.”
“What did they look like?” I asked. “The lodge members who came to your door, I mean?”
A bang shook the house.
We started, whipping toward the open doorway. A warm breeze ruffled the doilies beneath their pots.
Footsteps thudded down the hallway.
Fists clenched, I stood and edged backward, away from the door. “Are you expecting anyone?” I whispered to Mrs. Steinberg.
She shook her head and reached for her purse.
I steadied my breathing and mentally reached into the earth. Earth energy leapt—
A woman of Tyra Banks proportions appeared in the doorway. Long, glossy black hair tumbled down her back. “Bonjour! It is I, Brigitte.” Her voice was French-accented and roughened as if by cigarettes.
Riga cursed. “You nearly gave us heart attacks. I thought you were going to wait at the hotel.”
Brigitte shrugged. “I grew bored.”
“Wait,” I said, annoyed. “You know her?”
“Riga is my familiar,” Brigitte said loftily and laughed.
Riga’s jaw tightened.
“Your familiar...?” Lenore’s pale brow furrowed.
“It does feel that way sometimes,” Riga said rapidly, scraping back her chair. “Brigitte’s forgotten more magic than I’ll ever know. Which would make me a very poor servant. Brigitte and I are colleagues.”
The lines around Mrs. Steinberg’s lipsticked mouth deepened. “Do I know you?” she asked Brigitte.
“Unlikely,” Riga said.
“I come with important news,” Brigitte said. “There is a Black Lodge, here in Doyle.”
“Yeah,” Riga said. “We were just talking about that.”
“How do you know there’s a lodge in Doyle?” I asked the newcomer.
“Brigitte’s more sensitive to magic than most people,” Riga said.
“It is too bad,” Brigitte said. “Now you will have to kill—”
“No,” Riga said quickly. “I don’t expect we’ll have to kill our plans at all. The appearance of a lodge only makes their training more urgent. We’ll start tomorrow, and I’d like to meet with each of you individually first. I understand you each have your own flavor of magic?”
“Yeah.” I pointed at my chest. “Earth witch.”
“I’m a shamanic witch,” Lenore said.
Karin nodded. “Knot magic.”
“Interesting.” Riga rose. “Okay. I’ll call later and we’ll set something up.” She herded Brigitte out the door.
Brigitte’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Should I say farewell?”
“No,” Riga said.
The front door slammed.
Mrs. Steinberg’s white brows drew together. “Brigitte looks awfully familiar.”
“You probably saw her in a magazine.” Karin smoothed the front of her navy shirt self-consciously. “She looks like a model.”
“Maybe it’s Riga,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “She looks just like Rita Hayworth, and it’s making me think they both look like someone I know.”
“You knew the actress Rita Hayworth?” Karin asked.
“Forget what she looks like.” I jammed my hands on my hips. “Tell me that wasn’t suspicious.” Because that was totally suspicious.
“What?” Karin asked.
“The way Riga practically shoved her friend out the door,” I said. “And I’m pretty sure Brigitte wasn’t talking about killing their training plans.”
“She had a thick accent.” Lenore toyed with a doily the color of her tunic. “Maybe she mixed up her words?”
“And what’s that business about the cure being in the curse?” I asked. “What does that even mean?”
“Well…” Karin’s brow furrowed. “The three of us were cursed, and we broke the curse. So maybe we were the cure inside the curse?”
I raised a brow. “So the cure for Doyle is Doyle?” How was that supposed to work?
“Tell us more about Riga,” Karin said to Mrs. Steinberg.
“Who is she?” Karin asked.
“She’s a metaphysical detective based in Lake Tahoe.” Mrs. Steinberg retrieved her e-cigarette and took a puff. “She’s a loner, but she’s cooperated with white lodges in the past. That’s how I know her.”
“She said she was retired,” I said.
Mrs. Steinberg puffed a smoke ring. “I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“What does a metaphysical detective do?” Karin braced her elbows on the table.
Mrs. Steinberg shrugged, her black gown swaying like smoke. “She solves magical problems. I’ve read the reports. That woman’s been in more magical battles than anyone I know. There’s no better person to teach you.”
“Good,” Karin said.
“No,” I said. “Not good. There’s something fishy going on. She turns up right when Mac is...” I swallowed down the lump hardening in my throat. “...killed. I just think it’s weird.”
A fly buzzed idly past, and I swatted at it with my hand.
“It does seem unlikely,” Mrs. Steinberg admitted.
“Mac was shot.” Karin leaned forward at the table. “Riga was facing away from him at the time. She couldn’t have pulled the trigger.”
“But she’s got magic,” I said. “And we felt magic before she walked in.”
“That could have been the Black Lodge,” Karin said.
“You don’t sense a person’s magic,” Mrs. Steinberg said. “You sense the magic on a person, the magic they’ve used. And a good shower will wash that off. Good heavens, didn’t your aunt teach you that?”
“Who cares?” I said. “What can Riga do? Because the magic I sensed on her was weird.”
The fly settled on a sugar bowl in the center of the dining table. I waved it away, and it buzzed angrily.
Mrs. Steinberg opened a window and shooed it out. “I don’t know the extent of Riga’s magic. She’s first and foremost a researcher. It’s what makes her such a good detective. She gets answers.”
My gaze flicked toward the ceiling. A water stain had blossomed near one of the tall, dining room windows.
“And she’s studied more forms of magic than anyone I know,” Mrs. Steinberg continued. “Though I don’t think she’s expert in any of them, she’s pretty damn good at whatever she turns her hand to.”
“She might not have needed magic to kill Mac,” I said. “What if her friend, Brigitte, shot him, giving her an alibi?”
“But why?” Karin asked. “What’s her motive? And isn’t it more likely that the Black Lodge is involved? I mean, we know they’ve committed crimes in the past.”
“Mac’s death may have nothing to do with magic,” Lenore said quietly. “Mac has ties here in Doyle. A wife. Family.”
“Why would they want to kill him?” I asked, exasperated.
“How much do you know about Mac’s family here?” Karin asked.
My shoulders dropped. I’d lost touch with him after I’d switched colleges. And I shouldn’t have. I should have made more of an effort. “Not much.”
Mrs. Steinberg shook her head. “This is a distraction. A tragic distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. The Black Lodge is here. We’ll have to deal with them. And the best way to do that is together. Riga’s here to train you. So train.”
“We’ve done okay in the past without her help,” I said. I think it came out a little whiny.
“I don’t know if I’d say okay,” Karin said.
“We got the job done,” I argued. “We took out the fairy queen.”
“A fairy queen,” Mrs. Steinberg corrected.
My sisters shared a sideways glance.
I smacked a hand to my forehead. “There’s more than one?” Come on. Was Doyle ever going to cut us a break?
“We didn’t exactly take her out,” Lenore said. “We trapped her, and we had supernatural help. Even with that, we barely managed, and we still haven’t completely shut that door. What if the queen or something like her makes it through again? Other things have.”
I thought of that sense of dark magic in Ground, of that tearing sound… like something coming through?
Karin paled. “I’ve been trying not to think about that, telling myself it’s over. But it’s not. As long as that gateway exists, it will never be over. And there’s Emmie and Mitch...” She trailed off.
We argued some more, but in the end, I backed off. My sisters wanted Riga’s help, and I guess I couldn’t blame them. Karin had two children to worry about. Lenore had actually been to fairyland. She never gave us the details, but I got the message. It had been terrifying.
My sisters and I left Mrs. Steinberg’s and walked to Main Street. We strolled past a cupcake shop. At least that had survived the riot.
“I don’t like this,” I said. “And I don’t trust this metaphysical detective.”
“Think of it this way,” Karin said. “If we train with Riga, we’ll be able to keep an eye on her.”
“And learn more about her.” Lenore stepped over a dog bowl, left beside an open shop door. “And maybe improve our own magic.”
I clawed a hand through my hair. “Mac was killed, practically inside Ground. How am I supposed to forget that?” Heat prickled my face and chest. Shut up, Jayce, and stop making this about you.
“You can’t forget.” Karin turned and hugged me. “We’ll figure this out. All of it.”
She stepped away, and Lenore hugged me too. “I’m so sorry about Mac. If I’d known—” Her voice caught.
“No.” I grasped her slender shoulders. “This wasn’t your fault.”
Lenore grimaced. “Karin’s right though. The training gives us a reason to learn more about Riga. And we will find out who killed Mac.”
“Thanks.” I stopped short, my throat tightening, my lungs squeezing. Yellow police tape wound around the metal tables outside Ground. Another strip of tape barricaded the front door.
My sisters and I parted ways. Cutting between two old-west buildings to the alley behind Ground, I walked to my F-150. I drove to the green ranch-style house I called home.
My husband’s Jeep sat in the driveway, and my heart lifted. Brayden was home.
Barking started inside the house as soon as I stepped from the pickup. Bracing myself, I opened the door, and seventy pounds of golden retriever hurled herself at me.
“Oof. Lady, down.” I stepped over a can of paint.
Brayden emerged from his home gym, a towel draped around his shoulders. His muscular torso glistened with sweat. “You’re home early.” His green eyes crinkled with concern.
“Ground’s closed.” I rubbed Lady’s furry back. “There was a shooting.”
Brayden stopped short in the hallway. “Inside Ground? Are you all right? How bad? When did it happen?”
He grabbed his phone off the occasional table, and a roll of wallpaper tumbled from it and onto the carpet.
“Hours ago,” I said. Brayden was a paramedic, but he couldn’t have done anything for Mac. “And not inside, he was just outside, on the sidewalk.”
He put down the phone.
“Mac Davidge was killed. The police— I think Mac was targeted,” I said brokenly.
He took my arm and led me into the living room. His presence warmed me like a velvety blanket.
Lady followed, her collar jingling. The cat, Picatrix, sat on the back of the couch getting black hairs on its white fabric.
Brayden shooed her off, lifted aside a toolbox, and we sat on the couch.
Brayden and I were in the midst of a do-it-yourself remodel, and this room would be the last we’d tackle. The living room had become the storage area for all the paint, crown molding, and other remodel supplies.
“Who’s Mac Davidge?” he asked.
I shook my head. “You wouldn’t have known him. He was my age. We ended up at the same college for a while, and since we were both from Doyle, we became friends. This was the first time I’ve seen him in years.”
He pulled me close, and I rested my head on his warm, damp shoulder. Mac’s wife had lost everything. The realization of how fragile life was, how quickly I could lose what mattered, choked my throat. I entwined my fingers in Brayden’s.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” he said in a low voice.
“There’s more.” I told him about the metaphysical detective, the Black Lodge, Mac’s background in folklore.
He leaned back on the couch. “Damn. All this happening at once can’t be coincidence.”
“No.”
“Is it possible Mac’s death didn’t have anything to do with magic?”
I laughed unevenly. “He’s a folklorist. He studies magic. Well, magical stories. And he told me his PhD thesis was inspired by Doyle.”
“Is that why he came back?”
“I think so. He said he was taking a research break and visiting family.”
Brayden’s brow furrowed. “But you said you hadn’t seen him in years.”
“Yeah.” My fingers loosened between his. Why hadn’t I at least looked for Mac on social media?
“So he hasn’t returned to Doyle to visit his family in years? Or did he come back before, and you two never crossed paths?”
“I... I don’t know. Why?”
“It just seems strange,” he said. “I mean, I make a point of seeing my family at least once a year, more if I can. Are they estranged?”
I gnawed my bottom lip. “That’s... a good question.” Maybe my sisters were right. Maybe there were other, non-magical suspects in Mac’s murder.
“What do you know about them?” he asked.
“His mom died when he was really small. I guess that’s another thing that tied us together. His father remarried a woman named Hayleigh, and he has a half-brother, Stetson. His father died a few years back.”
Brayden rubbed his chin. “Then he might not have the closest relationship with his stepmother. Or his brother.”
“Mac recently got married. He brought his wife back to Doyle.” My breath hitched. Mac had had no idea it would end so abruptly. “I wonder if… His family must have met his wife before, right? At the wedding at least.”
“Maybe.”
“He invited you and me out to meet Oonagh,” I said, sick and sad.
“Oonagh? That’s an unusual name. What is it? Scandinavian?”
“I don’t know.” Come to think of it, there was a lot I didn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped down Riga Hayworth’s throat. “I think I’m going to do some internet research.”
He kissed me. “I’ll take a shower and then join you.” Brayden strode from the room, Lady at his heels.
I glanced around the living room. And suddenly, I was sick of it. Sick of the chaos, the messes to clean up, the cost. When would things be normal?
Roughly, I shoved aside a toolbox, opened my laptop on the coffee table and did a web search for Oonagh Davidge.
No Oonagh Davidge came up. But she might not have taken Mac’s name.
I glanced at the entry at the top of the page. A German folk singer named Oonagh, a baby name meaning, an online encyclopedia entry.
My breath caught in my throat.
Oonagh was a Celtic fairy queen...