Elemental Love (10 page)

“Which I imagine Symeon will guess and want to use to his advantage. He’ll try to get Evrain into a position where teaming up will seem like a favorable option. To do that he needs to get people out of the way who will advise him otherwise. It wouldn’t surprise me if Symeon has already been in touch. Has Evrain said anything?”

“No, he hasn’t.” Agatha stared into the flames. “There’s no messing with fate, Gregory. If my time is here, then there’s little I can do about it.”

“Just be careful, okay? Lock your damn door for once, old woman.”

“I’ll give you old… You watch yourself too, Gregory. Keep Coryn close.”

“Always.” Gregory rang off.

Aggie put her book aside, unable to concentrate. The words just ran together on the page. She stood, pulled the blanket around her shoulders. She collected a letter opener—solid silver, it might provide a useful form of defense—then went outside. It was a clear night—no moon, but plenty of stars sparkled like glitter across a dark velvet cloth. A light breeze rustled the surrounding trees. Agatha raised her hand and focused on it, searching for the colors of her aura. They had faded over time, shades of green muted rather than vibrant. The colors were comfortable, familiar. When she was sick, there were threads of gray. Love had woven warm rose and fuchsia through the green. Now she saw only darkness. Black with streaks of blood red.

“Soon then.” She sighed and gazed at the night sky. “Sooner than I would have liked.” A wave of dizziness passed over her. She leaned on the garden gate letting the sensation pass. A twig snapped. Agatha realized she wasn’t alone. She stood listening to the sounds of the night, familiar but not quite right. A chill crept up her spine. She froze in place, scanning her surroundings, seeking any sign of another presence. If someone were there, he or she was probably watching. Waiting. She took a few steps back toward the cabin then stopped to listen again. Her heart pounded.

Get inside, stupid old woman.
She backed toward the door, taking small, silent steps. In the distance a shadow separated from the trees, the rough outline of a figure revealing itself. The figure approached steadily. Agatha realized that the light from the open door behind her would show her shape just as surely as if it had been broad daylight. She pulled the door closed, choosing to meet her assailant in the open air. There was no point in running. No time to get to the phone and call for help—little good that it would do. The cabin was too remote for assistance to arrive with any speed. Certainly not fast enough to help her now.

She tightened her fingers around the handle of the letter opener. It wouldn’t save her, but if she could draw blood, leave a clue for investigators to follow, then she would. She gripped her weapon in both hands and dropped to a slight crouch. There was nowhere left to go, nothing to do but wait.

The dark figure reached the gate, growing larger. It didn’t open the gate or vault it—the thing came
through
the gate. Agatha could see now that it was formed from mud or clay. Not a man but a monster. This had to be Symeon Malus’ work. In the seconds she had left, she realized that Symeon could not be working alone. This evil sorcery was not the work of one man—she could smell the witchcraft animating the creature. It came at her at a lumbering run. She held up the silver knife, knowing that it would be useless.

Then it was on top of her, overwhelming her, a suffocating avalanche of mud blocking her nose, her eyes, her mouth. The thing’s momentum knocked Agatha from her feet. She slashed her weapon from side to side but it slid through the muck her attacker was created from with little resistance. She tried to cry out, but her breath was gone. All her senses failed under the onslaught. Agatha prayed for it to be over. False light flashed before her eyes. The final vestiges of panic and pain were swept away by silence.

* * * *

Evrain checked that he’d locked his car and set off down the path to Agatha’s cabin, carrying the sack of groceries he’d picked up for her. It was a bright day and the comfortable warmth spoke of early summer sunshine to come. He had a morning of training ahead of him but he’d arranged to meet Dominic for lunch and that had him whistling as he walked. He planned to extend lunch to an afternoon date, one that would preferably turn into an overnight stay.
It’s about time!
Since their delicious encounter in Dominic’s tool store, they had been edging around each other. Evrain stole kisses when he could, spent as much time with Dominic as he could and Dominic showed every sign that he was up for more, but when it came to the crunch, Dominic’s shyness always got in the way. Evrain was running out of patience. He needed to claim his man, something that was long overdue.

He pushed open Agatha’s gate and pulled his hand away.

“Ugh! What the hell…?” His fingers were covered in mud. On closer inspection, he could see that the top bar of the gate was covered in mucky residue. He rubbed his hands together, brushing off as much dirt as he could. The path to the cottage was also muddy. “What have you been up to, Grandma?” Evrain murmured. He approached the door, which stood open just a crack. He checked around in case his grandmother was outside pottering but there was no sign of her so he pushed open the door. Inside the cabin everything was still and silent. It was quiet. Far too quiet.

Evrain paused in the doorway, taking everything in. Usually the kettle would be bubbling away, there would be the aroma of fresh baking, curtains fluttering in the breeze from open windows. Today there was nothing. He took a couple of steps inside and caught sight of Agatha’s hand resting on the arm of her favorite chair, the top of her head just visible. The chair’s back was to Evrain so he couldn’t see more. He put the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter and unpacked a few of the tins and jars. His grandmother didn’t stir.

“Are you dozing, Grandma?” Evrain spoke quietly—he didn’t want to disturb Agatha if she was snoozing. He walked toward the fire, which was cold, just ashes in the grate. Evrain gasped in horror. Agatha sat in her chair but her head lolled forward. What he could see of her face was mottled blue and swollen, her puffy tongue poking from between her lips. There was no question that she was dead and, from the expression of utter horror on her face, her passing had not been easy.

Evrain’s stomach rolled. He dashed outside and retched, vomiting until his guts were empty. He sobbed, tears rolling down his face. Frantically he grabbed his phone from his back pocket and dialed nine-one-one.

Waiting for the cops to arrive was the longest twenty minutes of Evrain’s life. He sat on the edge of the garden path with his head between his knees for part of it, then got up and paced up and down. He’d managed to give detailed directions and soon Hornbeam Cottage was swarming with cops, paramedics and, not long after, crime scene techs. Evrain found himself walking down the lane with a detective, answering questions as best he could. He ended up sat in the front seat of a black and white, sipping a cup of coffee. It helped steady his nerves because his new detective friend had slipped a dose of brandy from his hipflask into Evrain’s cardboard cup.

“You’re in shock. Sit here quietly and tell me what you remember. It’s important I get your first impressions down before you forget.”

“Detective O’Shea, I’d need bleach and a scouring pad to get that image out of my mind. I’m not likely to forget in a hurry.”

The detective pulled out a notepad and pen. “In your own time, son.”

Evrain recited the details of his morning. There wasn’t much to tell. He described finding the cabin door ajar, the silence and the shocking realization that Agatha was dead.

“I didn’t see anyone from the time I parked the car to the time I left the cottage to call you. Not a soul,” Evrain said.

“And you didn’t notice anything unusual or out of place? The tiniest thing could help.” O’Shea waited, pen poised.

“No.” Evrain paused. “There was something. The gate… It had mud on the top. How would it have got there?”

“I’ll let the crime scene guys know to get it tested. Now, apart from yourself, did your grandma have any regular visitors?”

“She was sociable. She had lots of people from the town dropping in for her herbal remedies. Oh… Dominic! I need to call him.” Evrain had no idea how he would break the news.

“Dominic?” O’Shea asked.

“Sorry. Dominic Castine. He takes care of the garden and is at my grandmother’s most weekends and a couple of evenings a week. I suppose you should know… He and I are…close.”

O’Shea didn’t blink. Evrain was impressed.

“Thanks for your openness, Mr. Brookes. Now, I have to ask this. Where were you last night and can anyone confirm your whereabouts?”

“I worked until seven—I work at ThInk in Portland—then went straight on to a client dinner at the Marriott in the evening. My boss was there—I can give you his details. It wound up around midnight and I went home.”

“You live in Portland?”

“Yes. The security cameras on my building’s parking garage should confirm when I got back and when I left again this morning to drive over here. Between a quarter past midnight and seven I was alone. I stopped for a drive-through breakfast—the receipt is probably still in the car. The breakfast is all over the path at the cabin, where I threw up.” Evrain gave the detective his address details, a contact number for his boss and Dominic’s cell number.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” O’Shea said, sounding genuinely sympathetic. “If you think of anything else”—he handed over a card—“call me any time. I’ll let you know when you can go back into the house.”

“She wasn’t ill, you know,” Evrain said. “Grandma was in great health for her age.”

“Well, from what I saw, son, and I’m not a medical expert, that didn’t seem like a death from natural causes. I won’t speculate but did she have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of, but local people might have more of a clue than I do. I only moved out here from Scotland a few months ago.”

“Okay. I’ll need you to come down to the precinct and make a statement.”

“I can do that whenever suits,” Evrain said. “I want this bastard caught.” Anger started to take over from shock and bewilderment.

“Go home, Mr. Brookes. Is there anyone you can call to be with you?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. Really.”

Evrain left the security of the cop car and got behind the wheel of his own vehicle. He drove off with the intention of going home but found himself pulling up outside the diner. There was only one person he wanted to see. Dominic would come home to change before meeting Evrain for their date. He’d be able to head him off, protect him from the chaos at Agatha’s and break the news gently. He couldn’t do it over the phone and he had to tell Dominic before the police got in touch.

“Fuck it all to hell!” Evrain thumped the steering wheel. There was no way to lessen the impact of news he had barely absorbed himself, and the last thing in the world he wanted to do was hurt Dominic.

Chapter Eight

It was the kind of Dickensian office one might expect to see in the latest historical drama on the BBC and would definitely have felt more at home in Evrain’s native Scotland than in Portland. A heavy dark-wood desk topped with green leather took center stage, the chair positioned behind it equally imposing. Shelves stuffed with leather-bound volumes, their spines glinting with dull-gold lettering, covered the walls. Evrain doubted that any of the musty tomes had been removed from their resting places in decades. The room smelled of wax polish and old paper. A cream blind covered the single window, muting the early morning light. Evrain was grateful for the lack of brightness. His head pounded with the persistent headache that had plagued him almost continually since his grandmother’s death a month earlier. A month during which the police had failed to find a single clue as to who might have been Agatha’s murderer. Not that their lack of progress surprised Evrain. Having discussed it frequently with Gregory, they were both convinced that Symeon Malus was behind Agatha’s death. Gregory had related the conversation he’d had with Agatha on the night of her death. Evrain only wished she’d called him straight away. If he’d been there at the cabin, he might have put off her assailant and given them time to plan better protection. The wards at the cabin certainly hadn’t helped her.

Evrain slumped in one of the matching leather chairs set before the desk. He wore a sober black suit and shirt but had not succumbed to his mother’s telephoned pleading to find a tie. He’d worn one to the funeral, which had taken place a few days ago. That was enough of a concession to formality in Evrain’s eyes.

Dominic balanced nervously on the edge of the other chair, looking like he might bolt from the room at any moment. He clasped his hands together in his lap so tightly that his knuckles were white.

“There’s no need to be nervous, you know.” Evrain felt a need to reassure Dominic, who jumped as if Evrain’s voice had startled him.

“Sorry, it’s just that I’ve never been summoned to a lawyer’s office before. It’s a little…intimidating.” His glance darted everywhere, never settling in one place for long. “I should have dressed smarter.”

“You are quite smart enough.”
Stunning in fact. The blue of that shirt really brings out your eyes.
“My mother told me I should wear a tie, but it’s Agatha’s will we’re hearing and she thought ties were modern-day nooses.”

Dominic smiled, but the expression was forced.

“I can picture Dickens in here taking notes for scenes in
Bleak House
,” Evrain said. “Mr. Vholes is likely to come creeping around the corner at any moment.”

Dominic gave a nervous chuckle. “Dickens is a bit heavy for me, he takes far too long to get to the point.”

“So who do you like to read?” Evrain seized the opportunity to learn a little more about Dominic, while helping him relax with mundane conversation.

“Nothing high-brow, I’m afraid. I like old-fashioned murder mysteries.”

“Agatha Christie?”

“Yes, and I love the British TV series, you know—
Marple
and
Poirot
. But I like other writers as well—Dorothy L. Sayers, Margery Allingham. Oh, and I’m addicted to
Midsomer Murders
.”