Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  Connolly drums his fingers on the table, notices what he’s doing and pulls his hand back.

  “My family has enemies,” he says. “I don’t think anyone would kill me, but”—a throat clearing—“I’d rather not find out what they will do. Consider that a confession. One I don’t make easily. I’m at your mercy here, and it seems dangerous to pretend otherwise. I would ask you—very strongly—not to tell this man that I know he wants me out of the auction.”

  Ani looks at me, and Connolly tenses, as if we’re silently debating his fate. We aren’t. What we’re asking each other is whether we believe he’s in danger. The answer, I think, is that anyone capable of kidnapping isn’t going to give up so easily.

  “Let’s take a break,” I say. I nod at Ani and Jonathan. “You two talk. Plot. Check out our house for clues. Connolly? Ever had frozen custard?”

  “Frozen . . . ?”

  “Custard.”

  “No . . . But I’m not really hungry right now.”

  “Too bad. I am, and I need my first custard of the season. Coming or staying?”

  He pushes back his chair. As we leave, Ani mouths, “We need answers.”

  We do. And I’m really hoping—with a frozen treat and a bit of privacy—I can get them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Connolly walks out of the library and heads straight to his car.

  “Uh . . .” I call after him. “Fleeing so soon?”

  He frowns at me. “I thought we were going for ice cream.”

  “Custard, but yes, we are. It’s within walking distance. Here, everything is within walking distance.”

  He pauses, and I swear I see that churning behind his eyes, as if he’s trying to put the words walking and distance together in some way that makes sense in his world.

  “We can drive if you want,” I say. “But it’s two hundred yards away. Also . . .” I nod toward Ellie, who’s meandering through the gardens, as if she hasn’t followed me out.

  “Right. Yes. Of course. We’ll walk.”

  He still pauses at his car door, looking through the tinted window and then patting his pockets. I think he’s forgotten something, but he doesn’t open the door or take anything from his suit jacket. I realize he’s just mentally shifting into walking mode, figuring out what—if anything—he needs for the adventure.

  I point at the blazing May sun and then pop on my sunglasses. “Might need these. You can probably also lose the jacket.”

  “Right.”

  He hesitates, and I bite back a laugh.

  “Or you can leave it on,” I say.

  “No, no. It is getting warm.”

  He sheds the jacket and takes out his sunglasses. Earlier, I’d reflected that the men surrounding his car weren’t federal law officers, despite their short hair and suits. That’s what Connolly looks like, though, in his shades and tie. Or maybe not an actual agent as much as the TV version. Sculpted jaw, high cheekbones, lean build very nicely filling out his tailored shirt. The sun glints off his hair, making it more gold than red. Even the mud spatter on his shoes only adds to the image of the hard-working agent, nattily dressed despite tramping through the forest in search of clues.

  He bends to check his reflection, pushing a stray lock of hair in place, the small flash of vanity oddly adorable. Also, in bending, he presents a very fine rear view, unhindered by his suit jacket.

  He catches me looking, and his brows shoot over his shades.

  “You’ve got a bit of dirt or something,” I say. “Right here.” I tap my hip.

  “Ah.” He brushes at the clean spot. “Thank you.”

  “Anytime. Ready?”

  He nods, and we head onto the street, Ellie trotting along at a suitable distance. As we walk, I’m glad he grabbed his sunglasses. I’m sure it’s easier on his eyes. Also, they look good. But mostly, I’m happy that I can’t see his reaction to our surroundings.

  It’s turned into a gorgeous May day. A cherry tree drops petals like kisses blown in the wind. Magnolias perfume the air with a scent that always reminds me of great-aunt Dimitra. Every lawn is golf-course green, and whether it’s a business or residence, flowers burst from gardens and overflow from pots. Every now and then, I catch the scent of fresh paint or fresh-cut grass. It doesn’t matter if I walk through Boston parks every day—this is different. This is home at the most magical time of year, the town sparkling bright, ready for Memorial Day crowds.

  Does Connolly see that sparkle? Does he smell the magnolias? Hear people greeting me as they spruce up yards and storefronts and gardens? Or is his gaze fixed down the road, searching for a sign that marks the end of our journey?

  Or is it worse than that? Is he looking around and judging? Seeing past the pretty gardens and gorgeous architecture to the theme park beneath. Because that’s what Unstable is, in its way. It’s not Salem—thank God. The only reference to that tragedy is in the names of our streets, honoring the dead. There are good people in Salem, who want a memorial to the horror of the witch trials, but there are too many who just want to profit off people’s fascination with it. Here, we celebrate the paranormal and our fascination with that. A fascination with the possibility of magic in the world.

  As we walk, we pass a dream therapist, a tarot reader and a numerologist. We also pass a B&B, a sandwich spot, a soap store, a candy shop—specializing in fudge, of course—and a little place where you can craft your own crystal bracelet. They’re all services catering to tourists. Also all the sorts of places you might find in a theme park. I’m okay with that. I’m rather fond of theme parks, and there’s an old-fashioned earnestness I love about this one. But what does Connolly see? I don’t dare ask.

  I already feel a bit foolish, wanting him to see the beauty of my town, like a girl with a new haircut, hoping a certain boy will notice. No, that analogy doesn’t quite work. It’s more like when I brought home college friends. I wanted them to like Unstable—and not judge me for liking it. I’m not sure why Connolly’s opinion matters. It just feels as if it does.

  We make it to the custard shop without a word exchanged. I almost jump when he speaks.

  “I’ll wait out here while you get your snack.”

  “You don’t want one?” I say.

  “I don’t eat sweets.”

  “Don’t eat sweets? Or don’t like sweets?”

  His hesitation is all I need. I tug him through the door, the bells jangling. Mrs. Madani emerges from the back, and thus begins the ten minutes of chitchat I’ll endure if I step into any shop along this street.

  I say endure. I mean adore. I love coming home and catching up with people I’ve known all my life. I try to cut this conversation short, being very aware of Connolly waiting, but he shows no sign of impatience, so I chatter away as I place my order. Connolly continues to protest that he really doesn’t need anything until I threaten to get him an “everything” custard—every mix-in on the shelf. He orders a small salted caramel, and we head out back to the garden tables, where Ellie waits on the low wall.

  “If you really don’t want it, I’ll eat it,” I say as he stares into his bowl.

  “No, I . . .” He lifts the spoon and nudges the custard, as if it might bare teeth. “It looks quite good.”

  “Looks good. Is good. Dig in.”

  He does . . . and finishes his before I’m halfway done mine.

  “Not so bad, huh?” I say, arching my brows at his empty bowl.

  Spots of color underscore the sunglass lenses. “It’s . . . been a while since I’ve had sweets. I have a . . . tendency to overindulge.”

  I run a quick glance down his shirt. “Unless you’re hiding it really well, I’m not seeing it.”

  “Because I know my weakness and steer clear.”

  I stop, midway through twisting to drop a spoonful for Ellie. “Like teetotal-ing sugar? That’s some serious willpower. How long have you been doing that?”

  He considers. “Twenty years.”

  “Since you were a kid?” I sputter.


  “I started putting on some weight, and my mother excised sugar from my diet. I do have the occasional treat but . . .” He fingers the empty bowl, staring down as if hoping it might magically refill. Then he snaps upright. “Best not to tempt fate.”

  “Uh, look, I’m not going to comment on your mother’s methods. Biting my tongue hard here.”

  His lips twitch. “I see that.”

  “But you’re an adult, and something tells me you don’t have a problem with self-control.”

  He lifts the bowl, displaying the spotless interior.

  “Right,” I say. “But that was a small. And you aren’t rushing back in for seconds.”

  “Is that an option?”

  His lips twitch again, and even with his sunglasses on, I feel the surge of warmth. It does something to my insides, and I quickly focus on my own now-melting custard.

  “I’m just saying you seem like you can handle it,” I say. “Which is none of my business anyway. Sorry.”

  His lips curve into a genuine smile, and when he tugs off his shades, that summer glow makes me scoop custard faster, and I stare into my cup as if it’s a scrying bowl holding the secrets to my future.

  “Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re very easy to talk to, and I don’t mind a little easy conversation right now. Especially if it delays you reaching the real point of this excursion, which was getting me to explain why I can’t drop out of the auction.”

  I lift my gaze to his. “That obvious, huh?”

  “Well, either that or you just wanted to spend more time with me.”

  “I—”

  He lifts his hand. “I’m teasing, Kennedy. Your sister has been kidnapped. You wanted to get me away from Ani and Jonathan in hopes I’ll be more comfortable speaking to you alone.”

  “We do need to know, Aiden. In whatever detail—or lack of it—you can manage. Only one of us needs the story. We trust one another. If you’d rather speak to Ani or Jonathan . . .”

  “No, I’d rather speak to you. I will ask for discretion, though. This . . .” He clears his throat and reaches for the sunglasses before thinking better of it and pushing them aside.

  “The problem,” he says, “is that even if I explain, I’m not sure you’ll understand. Without standing in my shoes, you can’t see the situation from my perspective.”

  “Just tell me what you can.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I would love to say that Connolly launches straight into his story after that. He doesn’t. He throws his empty bowl in the trash. Checks his phone while murmuring something vaguely apologetic. Double-checks his phone when there aren’t any messages to stall him further. Attempts to pet Ellie. Gets scratched. Requires napkins to staunch the bleeding . . .

  Five minutes later, he’s looking at his hand, roughly bound in blood-soaked napkins. “Please tell me your cat has had her shots.”

  “I will . . . right after you tell me your damned story.”

  “I’m just—”

  “Stalling,” I say. “While my one sister is held captive and the other is already texting, wanting me to send you packing if you don’t explain.”

  “The necklace isn’t for me. That’s why I said the money’s not important. I need to win the auction and uncurse the necklace for a third party.”

  I lift a spoonful of melted custard and wave it at him. “Kinda sounds like being an employee. Oh, wait. Service provider. Isn’t that what you called me?”

  He doesn’t answer. When Ellie rubs against his leg, he reaches down, but I snatch her away.

  “Might I suggest there are better ways to escape this conversation than inviting bodily injury?”

  I get a hard look for that, but he doesn’t argue. I set Ellie down with the remains of my custard cup.

  “Fine,” he says. “I wouldn’t say I’m working for this person, but that’s splitting hairs. I’m uncomfortable with the situation.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with working for others.”

  “Unless your parents run a Fortune 500 corporation, so no one believes your company is actually yours.”

  “They presume your insurance business is one of your parents’ holdings. Like giving your kid a building set to keep him busy, encourage him to play independently, see what he can make with it.”

  He nods. “Which isn’t the case at all. Even the initial loans didn’t come from them.” He fingers the sunglasses on the table. “I’m sorry. That sounded defensive.”

  “As someone who runs her own business, unconnected to the family one, I get it. I hear the whispers in the magical community. That I moved to Boston to get out from under my sisters’ shadows. That I need to call them in for the tough jobs. Sometimes, I think . . .” I shake my head. “Sometimes, I know I got out to prove myself to the faceless nobodies whispering behind my back. Instead, I gave them more to whisper about.”

  “Yes,” he says quietly. His gaze lifts to mine. “Exactly that.”

  “You have your own business,” I say. “And I would love—love—to know how it operates with the luck working. Hell, I’d love to know more about luck working in general. But the point right now is that we’re both ambitious young business owners. Those ambitions may mean taking on side jobs that add ladder rungs to levels we can’t otherwise reach.”

  “Yes.” He eases back, getting comfortable. “That’s what I’ve done so far in the gray market. I have skills. Those skills get me places I otherwise couldn’t enter—too young, too inexperienced, etcetera. But getting the necklace isn’t a job. It’s an obligation.”

  “You owe someone.” I nod. “Drug debt or gambling?”

  The horror on his face makes me laugh.

  “I’m kidding,” I say. “Though I believe you did mention cards before.”

  “I said I’m good at them. I haven’t racked up a drug or gambling debt. It’s my brother’s.” He hurries on. “Still not a drug or gambling debt. Or I hope not. Though . . .” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair.

  “Your brother is a little wilder than you, I’m guessing.”

  “That bar is set low. Very low. Although, at the risk of bragging, I did skip an entire day of school in my senior year. Well, two classes. And one may have been study hall, but I was not studying. In fact, I had left the premises entirely.”

  “Was there a girl involved?”

  His lips curve. “Possibly. So yes, that bar is low, and Rian jumps it. Vaults it, I should say. The debt is to someone in the magical black market. Rian bit off more than he could chew in a business endeavor, which he insists wasn’t actually illegal but . . .”

  Connolly pauses, and then adjusts his tie and eases back, and I see the curtains closing. He’s decided he’s too relaxed, too at ease, giving too much of himself away.

  “All that is irrelevant,” he says briskly. “Family business. The point is that Rian has gotten himself into a bind, and his debtor demands the necklace, and my parents expect me to get it.”

  “Ah . . .”

  His eyes narrow, and he withdraws more, as if sensing mockery. It isn’t mockery, though. It’s comprehension. This is why he’d been so prickly about working for someone else. Ultimately, that “someone else” is his parents.

  I don’t say that. He doesn’t want—or need—me analyzing him. It just helps my own understanding of what’s going on. Aiden Connolly prides himself on his independence. He’s distinguished himself apart from the family business, and when he does hire out his skills, it is to further his own advantage. He has complete control over his professional life . . . until his little brother screws up and his parents dump the debt at his feet. Then he’s right back where he started, trapped in a dynamic he can’t escape.

  “I meant I understand,” I say. “It’s family business, like you said.”

  He relaxes. “Yes.”

  “Which is none of my business.”

  He squirms, gaze shifting. “Not to be rude, but yes. I have an obligation to my family. I must fulfill it.�
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  “Which is no business of mine.”

  Now he hesitates, the slightest furrow of his brow, as if trying to figure out why I’m saying the same thing in a different way.

  “Your business isn’t my business,” I say. “I’m sorry, Aiden. I completely understand family obligations. But mine is my sister and her safety. We’re talking about her life versus your brother’s debt. One of these things is worth more than the other. Maybe not to you, and I won’t argue your perspective. Your family, though, is not my concern. Your obligation to them is not my concern.”

  “Of course. No, I didn’t mean— I wouldn’t imply that Rian’s debt is worth more than Hope’s safety. The problem is that Rian’s debt is his safety. He’s gotten mixed up with someone who doesn’t take an IOU. I’m not saying his life is in danger, and I wouldn’t ask you to risk your sister’s life to keep my brother from whatever danger he faces. But I believe Hope is still in danger if I back out of this auction—the danger of being forced to unweave a notorious curse. Beyond that, I can’t back out, Kennedy. It isn’t an option.”

  “Why is getting the necklace your job? Your parents are the ones with power and connections.”

  “Rian got mixed up with this person because of me.”

  I frown. “You put them in contact?”

  “Certainly not. Rian knows I’m making inroads in the gray market. My parents are pleased about that. I didn’t do it to please them, but there you have it. They’re happy. Just like with my business. I didn’t launch it to please them. I don’t work sixty hours a week to please them. But they are pleased.”

  Frustration laces his voice. He must hear it because he pulls back, his tone smoothing out as he adjusts his posture.

  “My success led Rian to one-up me,” he says. “That is our pattern, as siblings. Whatever I do . . .”

  “He needs to do better.” I soften my voice. “And he never does, does he?”

  Connolly shakes his head. I understand that all too well. Ani’s the one who brought home straight As, who glided from strength to strength with the effortless grace of a figure skater. I know now that’s not true—she works her ass off and has plenty of self-doubt—but growing up, all I saw was Ani’s success.