Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  “We haven’t had anything to drink, Officer”—I read her tag—“Bradford. We just had the scare of our lives. An SUV struck our rear bumper. A black Expedition. It hit our corner like a pool cue lining up a shot. We went into the median and bounced off, and I thought we were doomed. Aiden managed to steer us out of it, but obviously, he’s a little freaked out right now.”

  My explanation doesn’t impress Bradford, but it does calm Connolly, and the Breathalyzer finally works. It shows zero alcohol in his system.

  “Fine,” she says. “You weren’t drinking, but we still had a report.”

  “I can’t explain that,” I say. “But if you look at the bumper, it’s freshly scratched.”

  It’s obvious Officer Bradford does not want to drop this. Oh, I’m sure she would have been reasonable . . . if Connolly hadn’t smacked into her twice. She’s actually being very good about it.

  I consider appealing to her partner, but he looks on the far side of sixty, one of those guys who are already mentally practicing their retirement golf swing. He’s perched on the cruiser hood with a takeout coffee.

  When he lifts his cup to his lips, hot coffee streams out both sides, making him yelp. Bradford shoots him a look.

  “Bad lid,” he mumbles and adjusts it.

  She turns back to Connolly as her partner lifts his coffee, and it spills again, this time soaking his shirt.

  “Look, the guy’s fine,” he says, plucking at his drenched shirt. “He blew clean. He didn’t hit anyone. It looks like the girl’s right—they got clipped. Either we file a report or just let it go.”

  Bradford glares at her partner, but he’s agitated and just wants to get back on the road. After a few warnings for Connolly, Bradford sends us on our way. I climb into the driver’s seat, and we’re off.

  “Damn dribble cups, huh?” I say.

  Connolly gives a dry chuckle. “That was you, was it? Nicely done.”

  “Nothing like what you pulled off. Our lucky break.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Yes, but I nearly got myself arrested for assaulting an officer.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Feeling about as lucky as a man walking under a ladder on Friday the thirteenth.”

  “Should I be concerned?”

  “No. Just stay away from me when I’m opening doors, apparently.” He glances at an exit sign. “To be safe, we should probably pull off. Take a walk. Buy a coffee. Let me trip over my own feet, scald my tongue, get it out of my system.”

  “What about scratch cards?” I ask.

  He arches his brows.

  “Buy a bunch of scratch-and-win cards. Work off your bad luck that way.”

  “Worth a try,” he says. “Though I’d still suggest you maintain a three-foot distance for at least the next hour.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The scratch tickets don’t work as well as I’d hoped. I suppose that’d be too easy. Connolly promises to keep it in mind for smaller balancing acts though he may be humoring me. As he’d said earlier, he can’t direct the luck balance. The trick, it seems, is to just proceed with extreme caution and let the bad luck sift away, grain by grain.

  After the scratch tickets, Connolly slips on the shop floor and, when picking himself up, manages to both bang his shin and fart—loudly and noxiously. I help him outside and leave him on the curb while I get the car. As he waits, a passing bird poops on his sleeve, and a car hits a puddle five feet away and still manages to splash him. At least it cleans off some of the bird shit.

  Connolly has an extra shirt in his trunk, but we decide it’s too soon in the bad-luck cycle for that. Instead, we hit a coffee shop. He goes into the bathroom to clean up . . . and breaks the faucet. So we sneak out and find another shop, where I bring him damp towels, and he cleans himself with moderate success. I buy us coffee while he sits at a table, touching nothing, not even his phone—which he insisted I confiscate until he’s rebalanced. Apparently, he’s had some experience with that.

  At the frozen-custard shop, he’d chosen salted caramel, so I get him a caramel latte. I buy a cappuccino for myself and a brownie for us to share. At the table, I double-check the heat level of his latte—I’d asked for “kids’ temperature”—and the integrity of the cup before passing it over. Then I started cutting his half of the brownie into small, unchokable chunks, earning me double takes and titters from surrounding tables.

  “This is embarrassing,” Connolly says.

  I stop cutting. “Sorry. I should let you do this yourself. I just thought . . .” I wave at the knife. “I guess plastic is safe, though.”

  “I didn’t mean that. Just . . .” He spreads his hands. “All this. It’s like an anxiety-dream first date.” He stops short and clears his throat. “Not that this is a date.”

  “You mean it feels like the anxiety-dream version of one. Where everything that can go wrong does.”

  He nods. “Yes. And I’m sorry for all this.”

  “Because you’re getting shit on by birds for saving my life? I owe you a hundred cut-up brownies, Connolly.”

  “You wouldn’t have been in danger if you weren’t in my car.”

  “And we wouldn’t have been in your car if we weren’t trying to find my sister.” I set down the knife and push the pieces toward him. “I think we’re both feeling guilty here, and neither of us should. You didn’t lose control of the car. I didn’t grab the wheel and send us into the median. The fault lies with whoever tried to kill us.”

  “It wasn’t my mother.”

  “Obviously.”

  He fusses with a tidbit of brownie before popping it into his mouth. “I know I haven’t left the best impression of my family, and there are people who’d think she’d do something like that. I will not say she’d never do it to anyone but . . .”

  “Not to her son. Like I said, obviously.” I lean back and sip my cappuccino. “While I get the impression I wouldn’t want her for a mother—”

  I almost say “mother-in-law” before realizing how that could sound.

  I continue, “But you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d keep sending Mother’s Day cards to Medea. I’ve refrained from commenting on anything you’ve said about them because they’re your family. That’s sacred ground.”

  “Thank you. It’s clear you come from a very different sort of family, but yes, this is mine, and I am still part of it as difficult as that can be.”

  “So whoever tried to kill us either just happened to choose the same model of big-assed SUV. Or they wanted you to think it was your parents. Seeing a vehicle like theirs following you would be annoying, but not suspicious.”

  He chews another brownie scrap and recedes into thoughtful silence.

  After a moment, I say, “Does this make sense?”

  “That someone tried to kill us? No. We can argue that they might have just intended to give us a scare, but a massive SUV hitting a sedan at highway speeds? On a busy road? The chance of a fatal accident is always there.”

  “Either they intended to kill us or just didn’t care if they did.” I stir my drink and then look at him. “How much is this necklace worth?”

  “As is? It’s expected to sell for mid six figures. Remove the magic, and that could double. Remove only the misfortune curse and leave the youth and beauty part, and it’d fetch ten times that. But the value isn’t the issue here. People will kill for much less. The issue is that we don’t have the necklace. We are in no way assured of getting it. I’m one contender, and you’re one potential curse weaver.”

  “If they even knew who was in the car with you.” I stir again, my gaze on the foam as it melts into the coffee. “You must be the presumptive auction winner, then. You have your parents’ backing with their money and influence. Someone expects you to win.”

  “But I don’t have their backing. Not officially. I need to be the underdog, no threat to the big names. My parents agree, and they’ve quietly grumbled in the right ears about me getting involved wi
th this.”

  “Someone knows the truth, though. That you’re a serious contender.”

  “Am I?” He shakes his head. “I think I can be a serious threat, for my brother’s sake. Right now, though? I don’t see it, which means I don’t see why anyone would bother trying to take me out of the game. Hopefully, Vanessa will have some insight for us.”

  “Tell me more about her while we finish this up. Then we need to get back on the road.”

  Connolly estimates Vanessa Apsley’s age at around forty though the question seems to confuse him. I explain it away with some nonsense about preparing to deal with someone of another generation, but the truth is that I’m just curious.

  Earlier, Connolly said Vanessa is interested in “what he has to offer.” Is it wrong that I read something salacious into that? Is it ageist even? That a presumably older woman could only want one thing from an attractive younger man? Connolly does have talent, obviously, so I’m clearly not giving Vanessa Apsley the credit or respect a woman of her stature deserves. And yet . . .

  Call it a gut feeling. I’m sure Ms. Apsley recognizes Connolly’s worth as an asset, but I get the feeling there’s more to it, and when he struggles to picture her even enough to affix an estimated age, I feel bad for the woman. I also get a very definite picture of her myself—ordinary enough that she slides effortlessly into “middle-aged,” a category covering anywhere from thirty-five to sixty.

  That only matters in the sense that if she is interested in Connolly, I’ll need to make sure she doesn’t get the wrong impression about me. That could torpedo this meeting in the time it takes to say hello.

  As for other details on Vanessa Apsley, those are as scant as his recollection of her person. He knows she has money. He knows she has power and influence. He knows she is a capital M major player in the magical gray market. She’s cemented her reputation as a tough but fair dealer.

  Connolly suspects Vanessa is one of the potential buyers for the necklace, though she hasn’t committed herself. He’s also certain she didn’t kidnap Hope or try to run us off the road. Her reputation for nonviolence is unmatched.

  Our goal then is to get information from Ms. Apsley without letting her know we’re competition for the necklace. My sister is missing, and we think it has something to do with the Necklace of Harmonia. I suggest we tell Vanessa that I’ve hired Connolly to help, that I knew him by reputation in the Boston magical community.

  We’re still discussing this an hour later, long after we’re back on the highway. Connolly has put on his fresh shirt and he’s driving again, his luck rebalanced.

  “I don’t mind pretending I’m working on your behalf,” he says. “But she knows I don’t like . . .”

  “Hiring yourself out like a common laborer?”

  “You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

  “Have you . . . ever gotten the impression she . . . fancies you?”

  His brows rocket up. “What?”

  “I was just thinking, maybe, if you’ve had the sense she’d be . . . amenable to it, you could flirt with her.”

  “What?” His voice rises two octaves, as if I’d suggested using torture.

  “Nothing misleading. Just a little . . . you know.”

  “I don’t know. Well, yes, I do but . . . No. I— No.”

  “You sputter adorably.”

  I get a glare for that, and I throw up my hands. “It was just a suggestion. We need to find a way to pump her for information, and I thought—”

  He chokes. “No. There will be no . . .”

  “Pumping for information?” I glance over. “It’s a figure of speech, Connolly. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  “I’m not the one—”

  “I said to flirt with her. Mild flirtation. Geez.” I shake my head. “Very light, exploratory flirtation should be enough—”

  “No.”

  I sigh. “I get the feeling you aren’t properly committed to this mission, Connolly.”

  He looks over, sees my smile and relaxes. “I appreciate your creativity. But flirtation wouldn’t work, even if it was remotely in my skill set. We’re going to need to play this by ear. Follow my lead. All right?”

  “All right.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We reach Vanessa Apsley’s house. And by house, I mean mansion. Or maybe that’s not the right word, either. Estate is better. We turn into the lane and have another half-mile drive. At first, I’m straining to see the house, but that only lasts as long as it takes to pass the high stone wall. Then my window’s down, my head out of it like a happy hound dog.

  “It’s quite pretty, isn’t it?” Connolly says.

  “Quite—quite pretty?” I sputter. I wave my hand out the window. “It’s the freaking garden of Eden, Connolly. Change of plans. Let me out here, and you can talk to the lady of the house. Take your time. Three or four hours should be enough.”

  The grounds are spectacular. Even that word falls short. It’s like the most amazing botanical garden ever, everything in bloom despite the fact it’s only midspring. Endless gardens that seem as if they just popped from the earth that way, like those despicable people who roll out of bed looking gorgeous. The art of one who can fling paint at the wall and come away with a masterpiece.

  It’s not just the flowers. In fact, for me, they’re mere decorations on the cake. The cake—and the icing—is the rest of the landscaping. Graceful willows bending over babbling brooks. Pocket forests so lush and inviting that they’re like something out of a fairy tale. A lily-dappled fish pond with an arching bridge. A waterside gazebo crying out for a glass of lemonade and a dog-eared novel.

  “Do you garden?” Connolly says as we drive through this Eden.

  “That only means I know the names of the plants. Ani inherited Dad’s green thumb. You should see our yard. It’s nothing like this, obviously, but I could spend all summer on our deck.”

  I push my head out a little farther to inhale the incredible scents.

  “Careful,” Connolly says. “There’s a gate up ahead.”

  We already passed through one at the end of the drive. There’s a second gate here, on a wrought-iron fence. Connolly talks into a speaker, and the gates open.

  Beyond is what would, on another property, be the yard. At least an acre of it, filled with gardens, formal beds and winding paths and wooden benches and ivy-draped statuary.

  The house itself is a surprise. After seeing the property, I expect a grand and imposing mansion. Instead, it’s a single-story, low-slung and Italianate, hugging a front courtyard.

  I’m so busy gaping that I don’t realize Connolly has parked and left. The front door opens, and I twist to see a woman step out, her arms opening in welcome. Connolly strides over to greet her, and there is no doubt this is Vanessa Apsley . . . and also no doubt that I was very, very wrong about her.

  I thought Connolly’s lack of attention to her age meant he’d dismissed her as a generic older woman. Nope. It meant she was so far out of his league he’d never paused to consider her as anything but a business contact. That’s no insult to Connolly. The blame here falls entirely on the shoulders of Ms. Apsley.

  A few years ago, Hope went through a phase of devouring billionaire romances. Endless books about guys as rich as Croesus, with the body of Hercules, the face of Adonis and the creative talents of Apollo, all of whom fell madly in love with an everywoman main character. I used to tease her that guys like that don’t actually exist. Vanessa Apsley is proof that the female equivalent does.

  Connolly said she’s divorced, but her fortune is her own. From this property, I’m putting her squarely in the multimillionaire category. As for her age, she could be anywhere from thirty-five to fifty. All I know is that she’s so freaking gorgeous I can’t help wondering whether she has the Necklace of Harmonia herself.

  The house looks Italianate, and that’d be my guess for the woman herself. Mediterranean. Flawless olive skin. Waves of raven-black hair swept into a cas
ual updo. The kind of bone structure that means she’s probably even lovelier now than she’d been at twenty. Then there’s her figure, which is so impossibly lush and perfect that a petty corner of my soul wants to credit plastic surgery and shapewear.

  As I climb from the car, I’m not sure whether to fix myself up or just surrender to my car-rumpled frumpiness. Not that it matters—Ms. Apsley’s attention is entirely on Aiden. As she holds him at arm’s length, her gaze sweeps him up and down, telling me she is interested in more than his luck working. For a woman like this, Connolly might not be long-term relationship material, but he’s worthy of a romp.

  I’m about to slink back into the car when violet eyes turn my way. Violet eyes. Of course. Because a woman like this couldn’t have normal-colored irises, could she?

  Her gaze skates up and down me so fast my cheeks heat in humiliation. Then a smile teases her lips. With a clap on Connolly’s arm, she heads my way, that smile growing.

  “You’re one of the Bennett girls, aren’t you?” she says.

  “Y-yes.” I put out my hand. “Kennedy.”

  “The middle one.”

  She clasps my hand between hers, warmth and the faint perfume of bergamot enveloping me. Her voice holds traces of an accent I can’t quite place. Italian, maybe? Definitely European.

  Still holding my hand, she looks over at Connolly. “You think it’s a joker’s jinx, then.”

  Silence, as my heart thuds. She steps back and surveys us both.

  “Think what is a joker’s jinx?” I say slowly.

  “The Necklace of Harmonia. That is what you’re after, isn’t it?”

  “We . . . are aware of the auction,” Connolly says.

  She rolls her eyes. “Of course you are, dear boy. While the old-timers preen and posture, you’re hoping to slide in and snatch the prize from under their noses. You’ve come to pick my brain under the guise of, what, a social visit? I hope you at least had a better story than that.”

  “We came to speak to you about a related matter.”