“Bennett,” I say. “But you can call me Kennedy.”
He beams. “Let’s get you situated in that room, Kennedy.”
Chapter Four
My family hates to call what we do magic. That conjures, well, conjuring. Casting spells and manipulating elements, possessing the power to smite one’s enemies and conjure cupcakes from the ether. Given the choice, I’d probably take that last one. A good thing it isn’t an option.
Lacking more accurate terminology, we do refer to our wider community as a magical one, but people in it are only blessed with a single ability, like curse weaving or dream shaping or luck working. Even in Unstable, the average psychic doesn’t possess any power beyond the skills of a very good entertainer. Those who have actual abilities live in harmony with those who don’t, and there’s no ill-will or envy. Let’s face it, even those of us with powers fake it most of the time, like pretending to uncurse perfectly ordinary objects.
We aren’t witches or wizards, though I may have convinced Hope otherwise when she was six, in bed with chicken pox, and I read her nonstop books about magic schools. I then borrowed Mrs. Salazar’s pet owl to deliver Hope’s invitation to one, sending my sister into tears thinking she was about to be packed off to a boarding school. I staunched those tears with the reassurance that hers would be an online education, and I recruited Ani to devise lessons. Ani still grumbles about it, and Hope still has her magic-school achievement certificates framed on her bedroom walls. I call that a win both ways.
If actual spellcasters exists, even Jonathan doesn’t know about them. Jonathan King is the local librarian and Ani’s best friend since toddler-hood. After Hope and I marathoned Buffy the Vampire Slayer during a dual bout of mono, we started calling him Giles. No one in Unstable knows more about our secret world than he does, and he has declared there is no such thing as witches or wizards. Also, to Hope’s eternal disappointment, no brooding vampires or ripped werewolves, either. Just families who’ve inherited one specific power.
All those powers, though, have one thing in common. Balance. You cannot create in a vacuum. Weave a curse on one object, and you must unweave another. To uncurse an object, you must cast another curse, preferably on a different object. If this sounds simple, let me assure you, it is not. Ani keeps actual spreadsheets to track cursed and uncursed objects. My method is a little . . . less rigorous.
Once the solarium door is firmly closed, I prepare. Then I cautiously approach the mirror and pick it up. Even through my gloves, the ugliness of the curse throbs.
Damn it, Connolly, what did you do to this woman?
The answer comes slowly. The mirror doesn’t speak, of course. That would be weird. Although, there is an old story about a doll that actually did tell a curse weaver her secret. I turned that one into a bedtime horror story for Hope . . . who now has an entire collection of formerly cursed dolls.
This mirror, thankfully, does not talk. Instead, it sends out little tendrils of psychic power that slide through me and reveal their truth in sibilant whispers.
He would not stay.
And now he will.
Whether he wants to or not.
Ah. That makes sense. Connolly failed to provide the commitment his lover desired. He doesn’t seem like the smooth-tongued devil type, so I’m guessing he didn’t lead the woman on with lies and empty promises—she just wanted more than he was willing to give.
It’s a nasty curse for a relatively minor relationship “crime.” But Mom always said curse weaving is like selling someone a gun. You can ask what it’ll be used for . . . or you tell yourself you’re just the broker and sell it without question. This is why Bennetts weave curses with great reluctance. We feel obliged to ask for the reason and then make a judgment call.
Connolly’s lover wanted a commitment. He didn’t. As the curse suggests, he refused to “stay.” Perhaps the fitting curse would be that when he finds a woman he does want to be with, she’ll leave him. But that’s risky—what if he never finds that woman or what if he sells the mirror before then? Instead, the curse causes him to “stay” with whatever he deemed more important than his lover. If he refused to move in with her, he’ll be stuck in his current residence forever. If he found their relationship interfered with his career, then he’ll be trapped in his position, his business never expanding. An insidious curse, particularly for an ambitious young man like Connolly.
I set to work unweaving the curse. By the end, I’m dripping sweat and mentally wiped out.
“You’d better appreciate this, Connolly,” I mutter as I clean up.
Which is ridiculous. He’ll never know the mirror was cursed, much less uncursed. Which is for the best, really. Just call it my good deed for the month and—
The door opens. The locked door into Connolly’s office. It swings open, and the man himself walks through, still dressed in his funeral-director-gray suit.
“Ms. Bennett,” he says. “What a surprise.”
I stammer my excuse about camera shots and measurements. I barely get out a line before he waves me to silence.
“I know why you’re here,” he says. “Unweaving the lover’s lament on my mirror.”
“W-what? Lover’s—?”
“I believe curse weavers colloquially call them ex-hexes? Very kind of you, and much appreciated, even if I actually paid to have it cursed. A little test to discover whether you really are what they say you are. Whether you’d recognize a cursed object. You didn’t seem to, which was terribly disappointing. But now you’ve returned and unhexed it for me. I appreciate that.”
“You . . . set a trap for me?”
“A test,” he says. “As a prospective client, I needed to verify your credentials.”
“Prospective client . . .”
His lips curve in what he must consider a smile. I see only teeth. “Yes, I have a job for you, one that suits your particular talents far more than redecorating.” He gestures through the door into his office. “Come have a seat, and we’ll talk.”
Chapter Five
I do not follow Connolly into his office. I grab the rest of my supplies and shove them into a bag.
“You may leave that for later,” he says. “No one will disturb your belongings.”
I keep packing. Then I toss the bag over my shoulder and head for the hall door.
“Ms. Bennett? My office is through here.”
“And the elevator is through here. I’ll send you an invoice for my time earlier today and for the unweaving. You may also just give me the mirror. I’m tempted to stuff it into my bag and walk out, but unlike some people, I believe in playing fair.”
“I have a job that will earn you far more than that mirror—”
“Not interested.” I grab the hall doorknob.
“You haven’t even heard what it is.”
“I’ve met the guy who’d be my boss if I took the job. That’s all I need to know. The answer is no. Hell, no.”
I twist the knob. Nothing. I yank, panic prickling through the anger. When it doesn’t budge, I force calm and turn to him.
“Open this door, Connolly.”
“I just want to—”
“Hello!” I shout against the door. “Hello!”
“No one’s here. I sent them home.”
The panic crystallizes. “You—you’re holding me hostage?” I steady my voice and channel Ani. “You do realize you’re threatening a curse weaver, right?”
“It isn’t a threat. Just hear me out—”
I grab the only chair in the room, march to the window and swing the chair back. He catches it in one hand.
“That seems extreme, Ms. Bennett. Also, unless you can fly, it’s a thirteen-story drop.”
“I thought we were on the fourteenth floor.”
“Only because buildings never call it the thirteenth. It’s bad luck, don’t you know.” His lips twitch as if in another private joke. “Either way, jumping from that window would definitely be bad luck.”
“I have n
o intention of jumping. I’m just going to smash every window in this room. That’ll set you back about . . .” I eye the huge panes of glass. “Ten grand?”
“Probably twenty.”
“No job is worth that kind of loss plus the curse I’ll slap on your ass.”
“People can’t be cursed.”
“It’s a figure of speech,” I say. “Unlock this door. Now.”
“Just give me five minutes—”
“I’ll give you five seconds to unlock the door.”
“Or you smash my windows?”
“Nope, we’ve moved beyond that. Let me out, or you’re getting this.”
I march to my kit and snap on gloves. Then I withdraw a radioactive-grade bag, unzip it and remove a black ball.
“Is that an . . . eight ball?” Connolly says.
“No, it’s a Magic 8 Ball. And it says,”—I hold it up—“outlook not so good.”
“Cute. I know your area of expertise is the joker’s jinx, but I believe you need to up your game, Ms. Bennett.”
“Oh, this is no joke, sir. This right here is a curse bomb.”
“A cursed Magic 8 Ball?”
“A cursed Magic 8 Ball bomb.” I lift it to his eye level. “How much do you know about curse weaving?”
“Enough to know there’s no such thing as a curse bomb.”
“It’s my own creation. See, when you uncurse an object, you need to curse something else. There are lots of workarounds. This is mine.”
He frowns at the ball, sandy brows furrowing. “I don’t understand.”
“Think, Connolly. To uncurse an object, I must curse something else. Now, I could cast a practical joke on some random inanimate object, but that’s only fair if it’s a minor curse. Your mirror had a major hex. For those, I cast them all onto one small object.” I lift the ball. “Curse bomb.”
He takes an involuntary step back before stopping himself. “You’re joking.”
I turn the ball on the tips of my gloved hands. “Would you like me to leave it here so you can find out?”
“You cast all your balancing curses onto one Magic 8 Ball? That’s—that’s—”
“Unwise? I’ll give you my sister’s number. You two can vent your concerns together. For now, the point is . . .” I heft the ball. “Let me out of this room, or I unleash hell.”
“I just want—”
“Five. Four. Three.”
He throws open the door. “Fine, but you are being very unreasonable, Ms. Bennett. I also do not appreciate the dramatics.”
“And I do not appreciate being held hostage. Is that what you consider reasonable, Connolly? Locking a woman in a room until she does what you want? Guess you deserved to keep that ex-hex whether it was meant for you or not.”
Color suffuses his cheeks. Then he clears his throat. “I apologize. I see how detaining you could be construed. I only wished to speak to you, and I went about it in the wrong way. If you would just give me five minutes of your time, Ms. Bennett, I’m sure it will be worth your while. Whatever you decide, you may take the mirror as compensation for your time.”
I lower the Magic 8 Ball. “Thank you. But I still don’t want to hear about the job. I’m sorry. After this, I don’t trust you, and I don’t want to work for you.”
“Perhaps your sisters would do the job, then.”
“You can ask them, but you can bet I’m going to tell them what you did.”
“Understood.”
When I eye the mirror, Connolly says, “At least allow me to have that packed properly. You can pick it up tomorrow.”
I glance at him.
“I promise I will not bother you again, Ms. Bennett. I’ll hope, of course, that you’ll change your mind and want to hear my proposal, but I will not withhold the mirror until you do. Just . . . consider hearing me out. Please.”
I shake my head and throw my bag over my shoulder. As I stride toward his office door, Connolly steps out of my way and doesn’t say another word as I go.
I’m dreaming of Aiden Connolly . . . and not in a good way. After what happened tonight, I don’t think he’s ever entering my dreams in a remotely positive light. I’d be upset enough about the trap with the mirror, but what he did after that doubled down on the deception.
I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he didn’t think it through. The fact remains that he trapped me, and my stomach still tightens thinking about it. I didn’t know him well enough to guess what he intended. In that moment, I felt helpless and frightened.
I don’t dream about that moment of fear, though. I dream about what he said after that.
Perhaps your sisters would do the job, then.
It sounded as if he meant he’d try hiring them. But he’d seemed unconcerned by my warning.
Unconcerned because he knew my sisters would never get that message?
By the time I bolt awake, gasping for breath, sunlight seeps around the blinds. Ellie sits at the foot of the bed, as if she’s been watching me toss and turn all night.
“Ani and Hope,” I whisper. “They never got back to me.”
I scramble for my phone and flip to the text messages. Delivered but unread. I stab Ani’s number. It rings through to voicemail just as it did last night.
I pull up Jonathan’s number. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll know Unstable’s lines are down.
Or he might not answer because he’s still asleep, as most people are at . . . I check the clock. 5:50 a.m.
My fingers move down the list to our Unstable neighbor’s landline number. Mrs. Salazar is always awake by five.
And what am I going to ask her? Whether cell service is down? She doesn’t have a cell phone. Or internet.
I just want to know my sisters are okay.
So what would I ask Mrs. Salazar to do? Run next door and bang on our door?
I’m overreacting. I know I am. Cell service is down again, which is further ammunition for my argument that Ani needs to reactivate the damn landline. I can bitch about that, but it’s really my own fault for not e-mailing her last night. Also, Aiden Connolly’s fault for jamming this worry into my brain.
Perhaps your sisters would do the job, then.
Was that a backup plan? Or a threat?
The sensible part of my brain says I’m being silly. My fear is sleep anxiety, nothing more. Something happens when we go to bed and shut down the logic centers of our minds. That freedom can be marvelous—Michael Fassbender joining me in my nonexistent hot tub on my nonexistent back deck.
Turn down the logic dial, though, and you also unseal the anxiety pressure cooker. Last week, I got so busy chatting with the fruit-stand lady that I didn’t pay for my apple. Instead of my sleeping brain just nicely reminding me to pay the next day, it sent me a nightmare of the police breaking down my door and hauling me off to a Victorian debtor’s prison.
In this case, instead of nicely suggesting I should e-mail Ani, my sleep anxiety has me scrambling to pull on clothing, ready to run the sixty miles to Unstable to check on my sisters.
Ellie hops onto the dresser and watches me send another text, which goes into “delivered” status and stays there.
“I’m going to e-mail them now,” I announce.
As I do it, she keeps staring.
“There.” I set my phone aside with a decisive clack. “That’ll be enough.”
Her narrowed eyes call me a liar.
“Fine, yes, I’ll call Jonathan after breakfast. See whether cell service is out.” I rise and tug on a T-shirt. “But I am not driving up there this morning. I have two showings, and I need to uncurse that tea caddy. I also need to pick up my new mirror from Connolly’s office.”
I drag a brush through my hair. “You know what, I might even keep the mirror. I could use one in here.”
Ellie’s eyes narrow more.
“Fine, yes, I can’t afford to keep it. And no, don’t give me that look. I’m not changing the subject. I’ve made my decision. I’m not renting a car and driving
to Unstable this morning. That would be crazy and paranoid. Ani and Hope are fine. Just fine.”
An hour later, I’m walking out my front door, cell phone in hand as I reserve a ShareCar for the drive to Unstable. I’ve canceled my appointments. The cursed tea caddy isn’t going to get any more cursed stashed in my showroom. As for Connolly, if my sisters are missing and he has anything to do with it, our next conversation will be a little more involved than “Hey, I’m here for the mirror.”
I don’t honestly think they’re missing. I certainly don’t think Aiden Connolly kidnapped them. But my brain can’t help leaping to worst-case scenarios, and if I don’t make the drive to Unstable, I’ll spend the entire day clutching my phone, blasting Ani and Hope with texts and e-mails.
I’m stepping from the apartment, phone raised as I confirm my car reservation, when I stumble over something in my path. My phone goes flying, and I would have followed if strong hands didn’t catch me.
I suppose I should scream, being grabbed by a guy in a dimly lit hallway. Or I should lash out, calling on that single summer of karate lessons twelve-year-old me just had to have. Maybe it’s the fact I recognize that grip. Or maybe it’s just the fact that my “attacker” kept me from falling rather than throwing me against a wall. Either way, I only squint against the near darkness as a burly figure retrieves my dropped cell phone.
“Jonathan?” I say.
He doesn’t answer. Obviously, it’s him. Even in the dim lighting, his figure is unmistakable. If there’s a stereotype of a librarian, Jonathan cannot be crammed into it by any stretch of the imagination. He’s six feet tall, broad shouldered with muscles that suggest he bench presses entire shelves of encyclopedias. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair cut to his scalp.
“Seems fine,” he says as he hands me my phone. “Sorry about that.”
I’m still blinking in confusion when I catch the smell of fresh bread and fresher coffee. I follow the scents to the floor and see a bakery bag and two takeout coffees, one already opened.
Cursed Luck, Book 1 Page 3
