THE HERMETIC DETECTIVE

Kirsten Weiss

THE HERMETIC

DETECTIVE

A RIGA HAYWORTH NOVEL

1

Chapter 1

The clang of the alarm faded to white noise. Riga stood in an empty hallway. Long rows of

lockers and red-painted classroom doors extended into the distance. A corridor branched ahead to the right. Above its twin metal doors a sign flickered red: PEN.

She walked closer. The light flashed, strong then weak, and she saw that the O had gone completely dark.

The halls reminded her of her old high school. She was supposed to be somewhere, but she couldn’t remember the room number. And there was someone…

Her chest squeezed. The babies. Oh, God. She’d left them. Where were they? She pushed through the door, ran down one corridor and another, slamming through heavy doors. What kind of mother abandoned her children?

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2

“Sheesh,” a man said from behind her. “When you’re asleep, you don’t know you’re dreaming. When you’re awake, you don’t know you’re alive. You’ve gotta remember the details, doll face.”

Skidding to a halt, she spun around, gaped. “Vinnie?”

The ghost slouched against a locker. Dark-haired and dapper in his white sailor’s uniform, he grinned. “In the spirit.”

“This is a dream.” She slumped, relieved. And the dream was a recurring one she should have recognized. Why did she always end up back in school, late for class, unable to find where she was supposed to be?

“That’s what I said. You got wax in your ears?” Sleep. She’d finally gotten to sleep, and she

was damn well going to enjoy it, even if that stupid alarm was clamoring in the distance. “Please tell me you’re not real, that you’re just a figment of my subconscious.” The ghost had a tendency to appear when trouble was brewing, and she had enough on her hands with a pair of five-month-olds.

Vinnie’s eyebrows shot up. “Who said your subconscious ain’t real?”

“If you’re going to get cryptic, I’m leaving.” She focused on her hands, slender and unlined, and imagined a dream beach. She looked up. Nope, still in school.

“That’s life, doll, a snake biting its own tail.”

KIRSTEN WEISS

3

Riga groaned. “You used to be more direct. Don’t tell me my guardian angel has turned into a mystic.”

“Not your guardian, the big guy’s. You two’ve got cute rug rats, by the way.”

“Are they—” “They’re sleeping like babies.” He smirked.

“Now listen up, we don’t have much time. There’s big trouble coming—”

“What sort of trouble?” “I just told you, the big kind.” “If your Donovan’s guardian angel, why don’t

you invade his dreams?” “Because A: he’s not sleeping right now, and B:

he won’t let me, and C: I ain’t no angel.” He leered. “Really?” Riga digested that. How was her

husband able to block the ghost? Donovan had never displayed any overtly magical powers. But there was something… A power fizzing just beneath his skin. “But why—?”

Whipping off his sailor’s hat, he smacked his thigh. “Dames! They won’t stop flapping their jaws.” He shook his fist at the ceiling. “When’s this penance gonna be done? Don’t a guy deserve to rest in peace?”

She folded her arms and discovered her dream self was wearing her new favorite outfit, a linen blazer over wide-legged, black linen pants. “Let’s get this over with. Tell me. How bad?”

He rubbed his face. “Do you know how many people died at Pearl, Riga?”

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4

“Pearl Harbor?” Her arms loosened, dropped to her sides. Vinnie didn’t joke about Pearl. Over 2,500 people had died there, some his friends. And she couldn’t remember the last time he’d called her by her name. Had he ever? “What are you telling me?”

“That it’s terrifying what a coordinated attack can do.”

“And who’s coordinating?” “That’s the question.” “You’re telling me you don’t know the

answer?” Riga asked, disbelieving. “No.” He paced between lockers. “But there’s

rules.” “Then what’s the good of this warning?” His shoulders hunched. “I know, I know. Just

don’t take nothing for granted. Don’t believe nothing and no one, got it?”

That went without saying. Her husband, Donovan, was the only person she trusted completely. “But—”

“Too late. Now wake up.” “Vinnie—” “WAKE UP.”

KIRSTEN WEISS

5

She twitched in the soft lounge chair and blinked at the two cribs, the shelves of children’s books and stuffed animals, the slowly spinning mobile of stars and planets. One crib stood vacant, the twins preferring to share. Riga was desperate enough for sleep to let them have their way. She could see them now through the bars of their crib, their little faces peaceful. Her heart went gooey.

Dream fading, she raked a hand through her auburn hair, checked her watch. Ten A.M. Her favorite outfit had been replaced. Soft, black knit pants, a button-up shirt in the same fabric, a slim belt around her waist. Comfort clothes. She tossed one end of a forest-green scarf over her shoulder. She might be a new mom, but she hadn’t thrown in the towel on fashion yet.

A tail thumped on the carpet. Her Rhodesian Ridgeback, Oz, looked up at her, hopeful.

Whipping the burp towel off her shoulder, she leaned over and scratched behind the massive dog’s ears.

His tail thumped louder. The twins were safe, and she’d been dreaming

about… What? She glanced to the door. The light above it

blinked red. Muffling a curse, she stumbled from the

lounge chair and grabbed her handgun off the end table. Her fear mixed with something she preferred not to identify.

Excitement.

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6

About the Author

Kirsten Weiss worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone. Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives. Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem. Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching True Blood and drinking good wine. Follow her on Twitter @KirstenWeiss or on her blog at http://kirstenweiss.com, where you can sign up for her newsletter.