Read Online The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) by Kirsten Weiss - Free Book Online Page B

pasty-faced guy.  I’m lucky to be working with him.”
    Riga straightened. “Oh, yeah.  The older guy,” she teased.
    “Old?  He’s only twenty-six!  That’s what’s so amazing.  He’s done so much cool stuff and he’s still young.”
    John Wolfe was too old for Pen but telling her that would only make the pursuit more romantic.  Riga changed the subject.
    “So what are you doing up so late?”
    “I couldn’t sleep.”
    “Guilty conscience?” Riga joked.
    A shadow of annoyance crossed Pen’s face.
    “I was kidding.” Riga leaned one hip against the leather sofa.  “You know the saying: no rest for the wicked.  What’s wrong?”
    She looked away.  “Nothing.”
    Bull.  Riga’s off the cuff comment had struck home.  Pen felt guilty about something, though Riga couldn’t imagine what deadly sins Pen had amassed at the tender age of eighteen. 
    “So what are we shooting tomorrow?” Riga asked. 
    “We’re going to film at Tessie sites.  We managed to get a couple of the witnesses to agree to meet us there.  You did review the video interviews that Sam gave you, didn’t you?” Pen asked.
    Riga crossed her fingers behind her back.  She hadn’t had time and then had forgotten about them.    “Yeah.  I ran through them.  Since I can’t sleep, I think I’ll watch them again though, take some notes.”
    Pen looked skeptical.  “Right.”
    Pen finally tottered off to bed.  Donovan, bless him, had a bar in his study and Riga found a newly opened bottle of Cab.  She poured herself a glass, then booted up her laptop and inserted the DVD of eyewitness interviews that Sam had given her.  It was standard lake monster fare, reports of seeing a long neck, a snakelike shape, ripples in the water where there shouldn’t have been any…  She sipped the wine thoughtfully.  The most recent sightings had all occurred around twilight.  If they were related to the killing – plural, killings, she reminded herself – was a pattern developing? 
    If.  Riga couldn’t jump ahead of herself.  But twilight was a liminal time – neither day nor night – when the veil between the worlds was thin.  It was a prime time for certain types of magic.  Or it could simply be that the poor lighting made people think they were seeing monsters rather than jumping fish or floating sticks.
    “Can’t sleep?” Donovan asked from behind her.
    “Gagh!” Riga’s hand jerked, knocking her glass of wine.  It teetered upon the desk, and she steadied it.  “You startled me.”
    “Really?  I hadn’t noticed,” he said, his voice layered with irony.  He kissed her neck and she shivered with pleasure.  “I woke up and you were gone.  It’s getting to be a habit.  You should stay.”
    Riga pretended to misunderstand. “I couldn’t sleep, and didn’t want to wake you.”
    He put his hands on her shoulders and massaged her. 
    She felt her muscles descend into a pleasant lassitude and closed her eyes, relaxing against him. 
    “No rest for the wicked,” he rumbled.  “What woke you up?”
    Riga smiled at his echo of her earlier thoughts.  Was her attraction to Donovan one long exercise in self-admiration?
    “Just a bad dream,” she said.
    His hands stopped massaging.  “A big dream?”
     “You’ve been studying,” she said, surprised.  There were ordinary dreams, the subconscious processing the flotsam and jetsam of daily life, and then there were big dreams.  These were dreams with meaning, predictive dreams, magical dreams. 
    “I’ve been studying you.  You told me once that dreams were your way of crossing to the other side, that shamanism never really worked for you.”
    “And I thought you weren’t listening.”
    He stepped around her and leaned against the desk, looking down.  Donovan wore a black robe and nothing else.  She glanced down.  His feet were perfectly shaped, as if he’d never worn western footwear.  Donovan picked up her wine glass and drank.  He