There’s little more exasperating than checking into a hotel. Riga was positive time actually slowed that afternoon as she shifted her weight in front of the Wits’ End reception desk.
The young innkeeper tapped her computer keyboard, and the printer behind her whirred. Susan handed Donovan, still in his kilt, his credit card.
“Is there any chance we can get the turret room?” He smoothed the front of his white shirt.
Susan flushed to the roots of her blond hair. “The police are still, er, using it.”
“Understood,” he said. “And I’m sure all the rooms are delightful.”
“The cut-through to the main trail on the hillside is also... blocked,” Susan said nervously.
“We’ll go around,” Donovan said.
“Your suitcase is waiting in your room,” Susan said. “I’ve never had a suitcase delivered before the client arrived.” She slid an invoice across the desk for him to sign and handed Brigitte a plastic keycard. “Your room is across the hall from the Mr. and Mrs. Mosse.”
“That will be adequate,” Brigitte said.
Riga shot her a look. Wits’ End wasn’t quite as swank as the Historic Doyle Hotel. But Riga could feel its Christmas morning energy vibrating through the air. Annoying check-in or not, she suspected she wouldn’t want to leave.
Donovan plucked Riga’s suitcase from her hand, and they trooped up to their rooms, Brigitte muttering about monsters and metaphysical detectives. Brigitte stopped in front of a door, swiped her key, and strode inside.
Donovan opened the door to their own room. “Ladies first.”
She stepped inside. Aside from the framed UFO photos, the room was quaint. A sturdy Victorian bed centered the room. A matching chair and table stood in one corner. Even the desk looked to be from the eighteen hundreds.
Donovan shut the door behind them, removed a grainy UFO photo from the wall and squinted. “This can’t be real.”
Riga dropped her suitcase on the bed. Donovan’s had already taken up the suitcase stand. “I suppose that depends—”
“On your definition of real?” He grinned at her.
“I’ve become predictable,” she said.
“Never.” He dropped the photo on the bed and nuzzled her neck. “How many minutes do you reckon we have before Brigitte busts in?”
“Two if we’re lucky.” Riga sighed. Stepping away, she unlocked the window. It rose smoothly, and Riga peered out. The shingled roof’s overhang was wide. It would be easy to escape this way... or for someone to climb up.
Riga closed and locked the window.
“What do you sense?” she asked.
He cocked his head and frowned. “Happiness. It’s infectious. The murder may scare off new clients, but I’ll bet Wits’ End gets plenty of repeat business. Do you think she’s doing it intentionally?” He angled his head toward the wood floor and the reception area below.
Riga shifted her weight. “I didn’t sense any magic on the owner.”
“Then what is it? A happy haunting?”
“Maybe. But this feels… bigger than a simple haunting. More powerful. Don’t you think?”
He paused again, as if listening for something, then nodded. “Yes, I do.”
Carefully, he pulled her into his arms. “I also think that we still have one minute left. It’s given me all sorts of ideas.”
She ran her hand down the front of his ebony shirt. “Really? I’d love to hear them.”
The door banged open, and they leapt apart.
Brigitte strolled into the room. “Faugh. Victorian charm. Why do humans find their past so appealing? Disgusting plumbing, low life expectancies, grinding poverty...”
Donovan held up his index finger. “Off by one,” he mouthed to Riga.
She shook her head and smiled. “Because the only past we really believe is our own.” And even that got distorted by faulty memories and wishful thinking.
Brigitte dropped into the room’s wingchair and examined her nails. “So. We are here, in the belly of the proverbial beast. I suppose you want me to sit on the roof tonight and watch for the sluagh?”
Donovan opened his suitcase and pulled out a black dress shirt and slacks.
“You’d stand out.” Riga unfolded the map on the bed and uncoiled her pendulum on its chain.
“Ah,” Brigitte said. “I have always admired this quality in you, Riga. You do not let failure stop you. You fail, and fail, and fail, and still you try again. And then you fail—”
“Yes,” Riga said. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps your dowsing will be successful this time,” Brigitte said brightly. “Or not.”
“Funny how that works.” Donovan strode into the bathroom and closed the door.
“Eh?” Brigitte said.
Riga poured a circle of salt on the blue carpet. She muttered the incantation and stepped inside the circle. Whisking her hand down the pendulum’s chain, she wished the room wasn’t quite so crowded.
Show me any ley lines. She laid the map on the carpet and held the pendulum above the square marked Wits’ End.
The pendulum hung, motionless. Riga grimaced. The crystal jerked, trembled on its chain. Almost imperceptibly, the pendulum began to swing, and Riga relaxed.
The crystal swung in an arc beside the square on the map.
Brigitte leaned forward, watching.
The crystal stilled. It quivered, then swung in every increasing circles, halted. It started another back-and-forth swing, this time along a different side of the B&B. The pendulum repeated the process and completed a third set of swings along a straight line.
“So,” Brigitte breathed. “Wits’ End is surrounded by ley lines.”
“Not only that,” Riga said, “they intersect to form a near-perfect triangle around the B&B.”
Donovan emerged from the bathroom in his fresh clothes. “Is that how the B&B’s protected?”
“Not the protection itself, though the ley lines have got to boost their strength,” Riga said. “We’ve been to places with intersecting ley lines—”
“Like that place outside Joshua Tree,” he said.
Riga nodded. “Yes, and there’s definitely big power there, but not like this. This feels different.”
“Hm,” Brigitte said. “I said you might succeed.”
Yes, but only inside a salt circle. Magic on the fly could still be iffy. Riga pocketed the crystal pendulum.
“And what next?” Brigitte asked. “To the roof?”
“Why don’t we talk to Aries’ friends instead?” Riga said. “They may be more talkative now that he’s not around.”
“Interrogate them about the murders?” Brigitte said, arch.
“About the magic,” Riga said. “And we investigate this energy around Wits’ End. What do you think? Could it be an elemental?”
Brigitte made a moue. “If you had asked me when we first arrived in Doyle, I would have said, yes. Elementals are chaotic, as was Doyle at the time. But Doyle has settled, and Wits’ End has a very different energy, no?”
“Yes,” Riga said.
“Also,” Brigitte continued, “elementals only take notice of humans when they are annoyed. You do not wish to spend time near an annoyed elemental.”
“Take notice?” Donovan dropped a pair of folded trousers on the bed. “You think whatever this is, it’s actively aware of the people here?”
The skin on Riga’s arms prickled.
Brigitte started to speak and shook her head. “I do not know. I do not know why I said this thing.”
“Could be your intuition,” Riga said.
“Intuition is for humans.” She sniffed. “I am a creature of logic and arcane knowledge. I do not intuit. I know, or I do not know. And the latter is rare.”
Riga changed the subject. “What do you know about binding spells?”
Donovan paused, a folded dress shirt in hand.
“Binding spells?” the gargoyle asked. “What sort? Be more specific.”
“Spells to bind a person’s magic.”
Brigitte stiffened. “Nothing. Now I must go to Lenore. I have promised to train her today, since you have not been training the witches.”
The criticism stung, especially after Jayce hadn’t been impressed with Riga’s lesson plans. “Understanding Doyle’s magic is part of developing their training program.”
“Phht!” Brigitte strode into the hallway and slammed the door.
“Something going on between the two of you?” Donovan reached up and stilled a picture rattling on the wall.
“I’m not sure.”
He went to the door and tugged the knob. “It locked automatically. I was sure I closed this when we came in.”
Riga stared at the salt circle on the carpet. “I thought you had too.” But if he had, how had Brigitte gotten inside so easily? More of her new magic? She shook her head and dug her mini-vacuum out of her bag.
Her husband prowled toward her. “Now, back to my original idea...”
Two sets of heavy footsteps clomped past their door and shook the Victorian.
“Hold that thought.” Riga dropped the vacuum, wriggled past him, and peered out the door.
The Black Lodge acolytes walked into a room near the end of the hall.
“Mm,” Donovan said in her ear, and she shivered. “No time like the present for an interrogation?”
“I guess not. Who knows how long they’ll stay in Doyle now Aries is dead?” Regretfully, Riga retrieved a small notebook and pen from her bag.
Donovan opened the door for her, and Susan walked past.
Riga leaned into the hallway.
The B&B owner hurried to the two men’s door. She knocked gently. The door opened, and she walked inside.
Riga’s toes curled in her boots. Fingers twitching, she listened for the click of a closing lock, and heard none. “Strange,” Riga whispered. “She wasn’t carrying towels or cleaning supplies.”
“Maybe she wants to discuss check-out,” he murmured. “Their plans must be up in the air with Aries gone.”
“You’re probably right.”
They walked down the green-carpeted hall, lined with UFO photos. The door to the men’s room was ajar. Soft voices emerged from inside it.
Riga leaned forward.
The two men sat on the edge of twin beds. Susan had pulled up the desk chair and sat before them. “...anything you need,” she was saying.
Riga drew back. “Condolences.”
“How irritating.”
It really was. She hated having her plans interrupted. Riga strained her ears and bent to look again.
Susan held a planner open on her knees, a pencil poised above it. “...anything strange?”
The men shook their heads, and Riga pulled back.
“What is it?” Donovan asked.
She rubbed her forehead. “It sounds like... she’s interrogating them.”
“Why would a B&B owner interrogate two oversized murder suspects?”
“I don’t know, but I want to interrogate them.”
She leaned forward again to peer inside.
Susan rose from her chair.
Riga jerked backward. The hall ended in a nearby door, and she turned the knob. It opened onto an exterior landing.
She and Donovan stepped onto it, closing the door behind them. The landing gave them an elevated view of the police tape in the manzanita. A breeze fluttered the yellow strips. One end lifted in a farewell wave.
Riga’s hands fell to her sides. Aries hadn’t been an innocent. But he probably hadn’t deserved to die. She squeezed her eyes shut. This time she did not see lottery tickets and bags of snacks.
“You can’t save everyone,” Donovan said quietly.
She laid her hand atop Donovan’s, braced on the wooden railing.
Inside the B&B, a door closed.
They waited a minute, then returned to the hallway and knocked.
The redhead opened the door. “Yeah?”
“We need to talk,” Riga said.
His mouth firmed up. To her surprise, he stepped away from the door, pulling it wider, and motioned them inside.
They walked into the cramped room.
The blond named Patrick sat on the bed. He massaged a brace around his knee.
“How’s that feeling?” Donovan asked him.
He glared. “The doc said it’ll heal. What do you want?”
Donovan leaned against the pale blue wall. “Same thing you do. To figure out what the hell’s going on.”
The redhead closed the door behind them and made a half laugh, an almost laugh. “I haven’t known what’s going on since we joined up.”
“When was that?” Riga asked.
“Three months ago,” the redhead said. “I’m Wincel.” He stuck out his hand. “So I guess you’re in a lodge too?”
Riga shook his hand. No shock of magic leapt between them. “No. I’m not much of a joiner.”
He snorted. “Smart. Smarter than we were.”
“Regretting your decision?” Donovan asked.
“We just thought it’d be fun,” Wincel said.
“A black lodge?” she asked, incredulous. “Black magic? Fun?”
“It’s not real magic,” Wincel said. “They’re larpers.”
“Larpers?” Donovan asked.
The blond rolled his eyes. “Live action role playing.”
“How do you figure that?” Riga asked.
“We met Aries when we were in a steampunk secret society,” Wincel said. “I liked the costumes. He was there for the history.”
“The history,” Riga said flatly.
Wincel nodded. “Steampunk is historical fantasy, but a lot of the systems in the books and games are based off real occult stuff. You know, folklore and things. The steampunk society was based off the Golden Dawn.”
Riga nodded. The Golden Dawn had been a Victorian-era magical society. It had been well-researched, and many of their rituals were in books and online.
“Aries said he was in a magical society that was real,” Wincel said. “Well, a real society, not real magic. He invited us to join. Said they’d teach us stuff. We didn’t know he just wanted us to stand around and look tough.”
“And did they teach you stuff?” Riga asked, curious.
“Yeah,” Wincel said, “but it was boring. All we’ve been doing is meditating on Tarot cards and memorizing symbols. Honestly, it’s not that different from the steampunk society.”
“No actual magic?” Donovan asked.
Patrick raised his pale brows. “Dude. Come on. Magic’s not real. Aries was larping like everyone else.”
Riga tilted her head, her lips pursing. Mrs. Steinberg had said this lodge had serious mojo.
She and Donovan had run into a trio of ex-lodge members, acrobats, in Vegas. The remnants of magic Riga had sensed on them had been powerful. They weren’t to be trifled with. But if Riga had read the acrobats correctly, the lodge had frightened them.
She leaned against the desk and let Donovan question them. They seemed to respond to him better. But in the end, they weren’t able to tell them much about the lodge. The two claimed they’d never known Aries’s plans in Doyle.
“Tell me about last night,” Riga said, “before Aries died.”
Patrick adjusted his leg. “We split up after we ran into you. He wanted to go to Alchemy again, but we were sick of it and my knee was killing me. So he told us to go to the UFO lecture and take notes.”
“He didn’t give you any indication why he was on that hillside last night?” Riga asked.
“All he told us,” Wincel said, “was that he had an important meeting to go to before dinner and didn’t need us.”
“When did he tell you this?” Riga asked.
“Just before he left, around a quarter after seven.”
“An important meeting?” Riga persisted. “Those were his exact words?”
The two men looked at each other.
“Yeah,” Wincel said.
“Why did he want to stay here, at Wits’ End?” Riga asked.
“Because everyone knows UFOs have gotten confused with fairy encounters,” Wincel said. “And this place is UFO central.”
“No.” Patrick massaged his knee beneath the brace. “Everyone knows fairies and UFOs are projections of the unconscious mind.”
“But they’re the same phenomena,” Wincel said.
“He said it would be a good addition to our education.” Patrick rolled his eyes again. “Whatever.”
Riga and Donovan asked more questions and got no good answers. They left, closing the door behind them.
“What do you think?” he asked in a low voice.
“I think I want to go outside.”
They walked downstairs, and Riga stopped short on the bottom step.
The sheriff, scowling, arms folded, blocked the front door.
“Stop playing private detective,” the sheriff snarled, fists clenching. The diminutive woman strode past Riga and Donovan and glowered at the woman behind the B&B’s reception desk.
An aging beagle whined and looked from one woman to the other.
Susan smiled benignly. “You wouldn’t be saying that if—”
“The body wasn’t on your property,” McCourt roared. “You’ve got no stake in this murder.”
“So it was murder?” Susan asked.
Riga and Donovan edged toward the door.
“Of course it was—” The sheriff whipped off her broad-brimmed hat and slapped it against her thigh.
“Mr. Smith was my guest,” Susan said, “even if it only for a few hours. It’s only natural I’m concerned.”
Unnoticed, Riga and Donovan crept outside, to the porch.
When they reached the B&B’s front lawn, Donovan blew out a breath. “Everyone’s a detective these days.”
“I’d be worried about that body too if I were Susan,” Riga said. “Murdered guests can’t be good for business. And speaking of dead people, have you seen any spirits at Wits’ End?”
“No,” Donovan said. “Should I have?”
“A man was killed in one of the rooms a year or so back.”
“You have been doing your homework,” he said. “But no, I haven’t seen anyone.”
“Too bad. For us, not the spirit,” Riga amended hastily. “It’s best he moved on.” But they’d gotten intel from restless ghosts before. A perspective on Wits’ End from the other side might have been helpful.
They wandered to the spirit house, beside a thicket of roses. It stood on a platform on top of a post.
Donovan waved his hand above it, and the smoke from the remains of a stick of incense coiled around his fingers.
“Sense anything?” Riga looked across the picket fence to the shingled A-frame cabin beyond.
“It feels... Look, I don’t know how else to say it. It feels good.”
She jammed her hands on her hips. “It does to me too. This whole place does. It’s irritating.”
Donovan cocked a brow.
“Well,” she said, “what sort of spirit or entity just puts out good vibes?”
“A good one?”
“Okay, maybe that.” But in her experience, the supernatural tended not to bother with good and bad. “Brigitte’s right. It’s not an elemental. I’ve felt elementals.” She sat cross-legged on the lawn and closed her eyes.
“I’m just going to... stand back.” Donovan’s footfalls retreated.
Riga centered herself and visualized a bright, cleansing light clearing her aura. “I’m here as a friend of this place,” she said in a low voice. “I come in gratitude and with no ill will, and I ask permission to remain.”
A breeze stirred her hair. It carried with it the scent of roses.
Taking that as a nod to go on, she said, “My name is Riga.” She pressed a hand to her heart and bowed her head. “May I ask who you are?”
The air pressure changed, lightened, and her skin shivered with anticipation. The scent of roses grew stronger.
Electricity zinged through Riga’s veins. She leaned toward the spirit house and listened with all her senses. It—whatever it was—was close. It was willing to communicate, and—
“What’s going on here?” the sheriff asked.
The energy thudded into the earth.
“She’s meditating,” Donovan said.
“Here?” the sheriff asked.
Riga sighed and clambered to her feet. “Hello, Sheriff. What can we do for you?”
“You didn’t mention you were a metaphysical detective when we first met. Or last night, for that matter.”
“It either puts people off or gets them too interested,” Riga said. “And I am a licensed—”
“PI,” the sheriff said. “Yes, I know. What brings you to Doyle?”
“As I said, I’m on va—”
The sheriff waved away Riga’s words. “Cut the bull. What really brings a metaphysical detective to Doyle? What interests you about our town?”
So Jayce hadn’t told the sheriff about their training. What had she told McCourt? “Doyle’s had an unusual number of missing persons cases—”
“People get lost in the woods.”
“An entire pub once disappeared,” Riga said.
The sheriff folded her arms. “Gas leak.”
Gas leaks didn’t make pubs vanish. Explode, maybe, but not vanish without a trace. “And there’ve been an unusual amount of murders for a town this size,” Riga finished.
The sheriff stared. “Such as Aries Smith?”
“Have you got any leads?” Riga asked.
The sheriff stared at her some more. “What’s with the spirit house?”
“It looks to be from Thailand,” Riga said. “People use it to give offerings to the local spirits in exchange for their blessings.”
“I know what a spirit house is,” the sheriff said testily. “I called it a spirit house, didn’t I? What’s your interest?”
“It’s pretty,” Riga said.
The sheriff folded her arms. When she made no move to budge, Donovan cleared his throat. “We should get to that winery before it closes.”
“Right,” Riga said.
“Right,” the sheriff said.
Donovan looped Riga’s arm through his own. The two walked to her Lincoln, parked in the drive.
“That went well.” Donovan opened the driver’s door for her.
Behind the wheel, she clipped her phone into the holder on the dash. Riga waited for him to walk around the front and get inside. “The witches say we can trust the sheriff,” she said.
“But you’re ignoring that, because...?”
“Habit, mostly,” she admitted.
He nodded toward the Victorian. “You were getting somewhere with that spirit house.”
“I thought so too.” Her gaze flit around the wooded court. She hoped that the interruption hadn’t offended whatever it was she’d been trying to contact. It would only make her next attempt harder.
Donovan pulled his door shut, and the leather handle came loose. A screw fell to the car’s carpet.
“I can fix that,” Riga said.
“There are other cars on the market,” he said. “Some even have four-wheel drive.”
“It’s a solid car.”
“It’s fifteen years old. It’s had a good run.”
“I know. And save that screw.” She could fix it.
Donovan dropped the screw into his door’s ashtray. “You haven’t spoken to the victim’s brother yet.”
“No,” Riga said. And Jayce had said some interesting things about the man. “Stetson owns a small magazine promoting Doyle tourism. Mac was a part owner.”
“Family business.” Donovan pulled a phone from the inside pocket of his black sports jacket. “The dynamics can be challenging.”
With Mac based on the other side of the country, she wondered what his return had meant for the magazine. Had Mac been hands-off or an irritation?
She called her niece, Pen, and put the phone on speaker.
“Oh, hey,” Pen said, panting slightly. “How’s it going?”
“Good. How are the kids?”
“Oh. You know.”
Riga waited.
“Okay, there was this fire—”
“Fire?” Riga yelped.
Donovan glanced at her.
“It’s out,” Pen said. “There’s just a teeny hole in the carpet.”
“How did the carpet catch fire?” Riga asked.
There was a long silence.
Riga slumped against the sand-colored seat. “Which one?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it was Emma.”
Riga resisted banging her head against the wheel. “Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine,” her niece said firmly. “And I’m sorry about the fire.”
“It’s not your fault,” Riga said, morose.
“They’re really good kids,” Pen said.
“Yeah,” Riga said, not quite believing it.
They talked schedules and child management techniques.
“I’ve got a research project for you,” Riga said. “Binding spells. Specifically how to bind another magician’s magic.”
“Cool,” Pen said. “I’m on it.”
“Thanks. Talk to you soon.” Riga hung up. Her hands clenched on the wheel.
“Pen can handle them,” Donovan said.
Riga should be handling Jack and Emma. Their children weren’t Pen’s responsibility.
“It will work out,” he continued.
But he hadn’t seen the Devil. And she hadn’t told him yet. She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.