Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  “That, dear Kennedy, is the curse of wealthy men, forever destined to remarry increasingly younger women.”

  “Curse, huh?”

  He lifts one shoulder. “Depending on how you look at it. My father would disagree. He always jokes he’s the only one of his cronies still with his first wife . . . because she’s too scary to divorce.”

  “That’s actually not funny.”

  “No,” he says, lifting a canapé to his lips. “It is not. Tell my father, though, and he’ll only insist you lack a sense of humor.”

  He glances toward the couple, who stand there, their linked hands lifted like actors coming out for an encore. They’ve paused, waiting for everyone to note their arrival. Everyone has noted it . . . and gone back to whatever they were doing.

  Connolly points toward a tray of pastries. “Those look quite good.”

  “Is no one even going to acknowledge that the Hill-Cabots walked into the room?”

  “Didn’t you see me glance over?” He selects a pastry for his plate. “I said I come by my arrogance naturally. So do most people here—and the rest are following their lead.” He nods toward the couple, still awkwardly poised. “They have money and breeding. Just not quite the right breeding for this crowd.”

  “No magical powers.”

  He lifts a plate of tiny tidbits for me. I take one.

  “This is the true source of my parents’ arrogance,” he says. “They travel in monied circles, but those circles lack the little extra they have. It makes them feel superior. When you feel superior, you act superior. When you act superior, people recognize your superiority, which means . . .” He shrugs. “There’s no incentive to change. The self-fulfilling prophecy has been neatly self-fulfilled.”

  While the Hill-Cabots try to figure out their next move, Hector swivels from his spot at the bar and grunts. “Well, get on with it.”

  The couple blinks at him.

  “Do you have the necklace?” he says. “That’s what we’re all here for. You could have saved yourself a shitload of money by skipping all this”—he waves around the room—“and wheeling the damn thing out an hour ago.”

  I hate to say it, but he has a point. The champagne is lovely. The canapés are lovely. The chance to play fancy dress-up is lovely. But we just want to see the necklace.

  A wave of Mr. Hill-Cabot’s hand, and two tuxedoed security guards wheel out a box covered with a black-velvet cloth. The men pushing it wear white gloves, making them look like magicians about to whisk off the cloth and release a pair of doves.

  Hector’s sigh ripples through the room as I swallow a snicker.

  “And you call me dramatic,” I whisper to Connolly.

  He wrinkles his nose. “I expected they’d have better taste.”

  “I’m sure they do. This performance is for us. The fools willing to buy a cursed necklace.”

  His lips twitch. “Touché.”

  One of the gloved guards reaches for the cloth.

  “Stop,” Hector says. “We’ll do that. You can leave now.”

  Mr. Hill-Cabot clears his throat. “We’d prefer our guards stayed—”

  “I mean all of you. You, the sideshow magicians, and your granddaughter.”

  Mrs. Hill-Cabot squeaks as her husband harrumphs and corrects him, which only has Hector shrugging and saying, “It’s your money” to more protests and a wave of soft laughter that ripples through the room.

  This is the problem with guys like Hector. When their snark is directed at deserving targets, it’s hard not to laugh, even when you really don’t want to.

  “I think what Hector is saying,” Marius says, stepping forward, “is that we’ll be more comfortable examining the necklace on our own. Your guards can certainly stay outside the doors and prevent us from leaving until you’re in possession of the necklace again. We can just better . . . fully appreciate its . . . unique qualities without oversight.”

  He glances at Mr. Hill-Cabot, and a look passes between them, one that says Marius knows the old man realizes there’s something wrong with the necklace—and he’s pretending otherwise. If he wants to maintain that charade, he’s going to need to leave the room.

  If he wants to come clean, though? Admit he realizes he’s selling tainted goods? Admit that the people in this room aren’t regular folks who just want to examine its fine workmanship?

  Mr. Hill-Cabot could do that. Step out of his tidy life and into a stranger, darker place where the world isn’t quite what he thought it was. All he has to do is say that he knows why we need to see the necklace in private.

  The old man clears his throat. “All right. We will return in thirty minutes. Until then, I must insist that no one leaves the room.”

  Chin up, Mr. Hill-Cabot turns to leave. As he goes, Vanessa glides over and whispers something. Mr. Hill-Cabot nods stiffly, and she heads for the door with them after a wave our way, telling us she’s going out.

  Marius notices and starts forward, as if to join her. A lift of her fingers, and he hesitates, and then, with an abrupt nod, walks to us instead.

  “Is everything all right?” I ask.

  He murmurs something I don’t quite catch, vague words of assurance, even as his troubled gaze follows Vanessa. Then he nudges me.

  “Go on, and get in there,” he says. “Everyone may seem very polite, but once that cloth is off, they’ll be piranha smelling blood.”

  Connolly puts a hand against my back and escorts me forward. The box sits on its pedestal, still covered. Gazes flit from Marius to Hector. If there was any doubt who the top dogs are here, that dispels it.

  Marius catches Havoc’s eye and waves for her to do the honors. She preens as she strides forward, all gazes on her. I’m sure she sees this as a mark of honor. It’s not. It’s the boss sending an underling to do the work while he freshens his drink.

  Havoc doesn’t stand on ceremony. She walks up and whisks off the cover, and the guests surge forward as one body.

  Marius lifts a hand, and everyone freezes. For a moment, I wonder whether this is some magical power I’ve never heard of. Then I realize it is power. The power to make people stop in their tracks with only a laconic raised hand.

  “I know everyone wants to take a look, and everyone will have that chance,” Marius says. “First, though, Ms. Bennett.”

  I glance around, as if there’s another Ms. Bennett here.

  Marius continues, “As a curse weaver from the esteemed Bennett clan, she should get a first look.”

  Connolly starts to propel me forward as someone says, “What? I have a curse weaver, too.” A bald man waves at the gray-haired woman that Marius pointed out earlier, and I struggle to recall names.

  “Yes, but you are not me,” Marius says. “I’m taking first dibs. Unless . . .” He turns to Hector. “Would you like to have a look?”

  I swear the whole room truly does freeze then, every breath held.

  “Seen it,” Hector says.

  “You don’t want to admire the craftsmanship?”

  A sound from deep in the crowd. A gasp? A titter? I can’t tell, and I feel as if I’m missing a joke, but when I glance at Connolly, he lifts a shoulder, saying he doesn’t get it, either.

  “Nope,” Hector says as he raises his glass to his lips. “Looks fine from here.”

  “The Bennett girl isn’t your curse weaver, Marius,” the bald man says. “She’s his, isn’t she?” A dismissive wave at Connolly.

  “She is Vanessa’s guest, and since Vess stepped out, I’m asking in her place and claiming the right to let Kennedy examine it first. Also, I’m curious to know what a weaver thinks.” He looks at the bald man. “Or we can bicker about this until our thirty minutes are up. Your choice.”

  The bald man grumbles but falls silent. Marius motions me forward. He also waves for the other curse weaver to approach though he warns her back before she can get close.

  Connolly stays with me, his hand against my back as if I need the guidance. No one interferes, and we b
oth approach the necklace.

  In life, it’s more beautiful than any photograph could capture. Thousands of years old, yet it gleams as if the gold has just been cast.

  I’ve seen snakes on necklaces before. They’re usually shaped like rope, forming a solid choker. This one is fine threads interwoven into a light chain that looks like snake scales. Two snakes, one down each side. At the bottom, their mouths open around a garnet. A carved garnet, depicting something I can’t make out. When I bend to squint at it in the dim light, Connolly whispers, “A loom. It shows a loom.”

  I’d never heard that the gem was carved though I know it was a popular practice at the time. A loom symbolized women’s work. While it’s kind of like giving a modern woman a jewel engraved with a vacuum, it would have been appropriate for a bride. A symbol of her new household. Here, though, it has a second meaning. Weaving. Curse weaving.

  I shudder. Such an exquisite piece of jewelry, with a curse sharper than . . . well, sharper than a serpent’s tooth. I wonder whether that’s symbolic, too. The serpents delivering a curse in their jaws. Beauty with a core of pure venom.

  “May I . . . ?” I move my finger toward the glass case and look first at Marius and then at Hector. It takes effort to do the latter. I want to ignore him, but I can’t afford the insult. Play this as if I don’t know he has my sister locked up somewhere.

  “Of course,” Marius says. “If it’s safe to touch, please do so. We’d love to hear your thoughts.”

  Hector grunts what I take as agreement.

  “It should be safe to touch,” I say. “It’s taking possession of it—wearing it—that’s the problem. I’ll wear gloves, but I think . . .”

  I trail off. I’m blathering. Thinking aloud, my anxiety pulsing for everyone to hear. I can ignore the insults about my specialty, but deep inside, there’s always the little girl who wants to prove herself. This is my chance, and I’m afraid of blowing it.

  I take a deep breath, put on my gloves and reach very slowly toward the necklace.

  “Oh, come on,” a voice says. “Enough with the drama.”

  I glance over to see, with some surprise, that it comes from the other curse weaver.

  “It isn’t drama,” I say. “I’m listening for the curse, letting it speak to me.”

  “Who are you again?” Marius murmurs to the woman, and his voice might be soft, but it carries like a whip, the woman jerking.

  The woman blinks, and pity darts through me.

  She straightens. “Lesley-Ann Morrison.”

  “Never heard of you,” Marius says.

  I squirm and hope it doesn’t show on my face. I know Lesley-Ann by reputation. It is . . . not a good reputation.

  There’s a hierarchy in curse weaving. Many practice it quietly and efficiently and earn the respect of their peers for their discretion. The way the Bennetts do it is not discreet, and so the fact that we are still respected is, as Yiayia always said, our highest badge of honor. We are respected despite openly plying our trade.

  The Morrisons . . . Well, the Morrisons are a prime example of the other kind of curse weaver who markets their abilities. A lot of sound and fury, signifying very little innate talent.

  No one interferes again as my fingers stretch toward the necklace. I close my eyes and open my mind, and the sibilant whispers snake out, slowly coalescing into words.

  Liar, liar—

  I jerk back, blinking. The words aren’t right. The tone isn’t either. There’s a malevolence there I don’t expect. Yes, the Necklace of Harmonia carries a terrible curse, but it’s either an ex-hex or a joker’s jinx, directed at one specific target. That malevolence sounds like—

  I give my head a shake and start to reach out again. As I do, an inner warning bell sounds.

  I ease back and reconsider.

  “Really?” Lesley-Ann says. “Look, little girl, you might come from a family of famous weavers, but unless I’m mistaken, your own specialty is the joker’s jinx. You’re—”

  “—the curse weaver I hired to do this job,” Connolly cuts in. “Marius might not know who you are, Ms. Morrison, but I do, and you didn’t even make my long list.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I don’t glance up as I eye the necklace, but I can feel Connolly’s cool stare crossing the room.

  “If you don’t know the answer to that,” he says, “then might I suggest you’re traveling in the wrong circles?”

  A few snorts of appreciative laughter. Connolly gains points with that, even from those who also don’t know who he is. Whispers follow the laughs as that gap is filled in.

  Nicely done, Connolly. Nicely done.

  He might be pushing his own agenda, but it gives me time to refocus on the necklace.

  I reach toward it, eyes closed, following the tendrils of weaving, opening myself to those whispers.

  Ugly whispers.

  No, don’t judge. Just assimilate. Listen. Learn.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire—

  I jerk back harder now, blinking fast. The liar, liar may have sounded anachronistic, but this definitely is. No ancient Greek would start a curse with a modern schoolyard chant.

  Ancient Greek.

  That’s what I noticed before. Yes, the curse is in Greek, as expected. But it’s as modern as that taunting phrase.

  A shadow moves over me, and I glance up to see Connolly studying me.

  “Something’s wrong?” he mouths.

  I nod but say nothing. I close my eyes and reach out again, even more careful now.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Open your mouth,

  See what transpires.

  Misanthrope’s malice. That’s what the nasty edge on that whisper meant. Someone’s cast a malice on the necklace. Which means I really don’t want to touch it. I do want to listen again, though, to be sure, because this makes no sense.

  I reach out, as close as I dare while Connolly bends for a closer look.

  Liar, liar—

  Connolly straightens abruptly and snatches my hands back. “Don’t. It’s a fake.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The crowd rumbles its disapproval as Connolly says, “The necklace is a fake. Look at the gem.”

  “Speaking of drama,” someone murmurs.

  Connolly wheels on the unseen speaker. “This is not the correct necklace. It’s a forgery. The carving technique is modern, and the loom isn’t quite right.”

  “Isn’t quite right?” someone else says.

  “I’ve studied every photograph ever taken of the necklace,” Connolly says. “This isn’t it.”

  “That’s it, boy,” Hector says from the bar. “I can tell from here.”

  “No, it’s not.” Connolly turns to him. “It’s a very good forgery, but it isn’t the Necklace of Harmonia.”

  “Go have a closer look, Hector,” Marius says. “You can clear this up. You are, after all, the expert.”

  The crowd shifts, all eyes on the pair. Hector lifts his glass.

  “Get off your ass,” Marius says, advancing on him, “and check the damned necklace.”

  Hector turns in his chair. Then he rises, and murmurs ripple through the crowd. Hector looked big sitting down, but when he stands, it’s like watching a giant unfold itself.

  Hector towers over Marius, who isn’t a small man. Menace crackles from both men, raising the hairs on my neck.

  “Aiden’s right,” I interject, finally finding my voice. “This isn’t the right necklace. The curse is wrong. That’s why I was taking so long. Confirming what I was hearing and trying to figure out why it wasn’t right. Because it’s a forgery. I don’t know enough to recognize the craftsmanship, but I definitely recognize a modern curse.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Heads turn to follow the voice. The bald man who hired Lesley-Ann strides forward.

  “It’s a trick,” he says. “They’re working together. They’ve already admitted that. He says it’s a fake necklace. She says it’s a fake
curse. And we all bow to their superior wisdom and let them take the ‘forgery’ away.” He fixes us with a look. “You’re children, playing children’s games, which work very well, I’m sure, with other children. I don’t know how you got an invitation—”

  “Vanessa,” someone says.

  “Who conveniently isn’t here to witness her guests misbehaving.”

  “Hector?” Marius says. “Resolve this for us. Please. Just check the damned necklace and confirm it’s Harmonia’s.” When the big man stays rooted to the spot, Marius throws up his hands. “Pretend someone else is asking. Better yet, let’s go with self-interest. You want this necklace like everyone else here. You’d like to be sure it’s the right one, wouldn’t you?”

  As the two face off, the bald man waves at Lesley-Ann. “You get in there and check, then. Tell us this girl is full of shit.”

  Lesley-Ann walks up to the necklace and reaches for it with bare fingers. I jump. I may also squeak. I yank off my gloves and thrust them out, but she only gives me an eye roll, brimming with disdain.

  “Malice,” I blurt. “It’s a misanthrope’s malice.”

  That makes her stop.

  I exhale. “Take the gloves. Go slow.”

  She takes the gloves. Then, gaze locked with mine, she holds them out . . . and drops them. When I lunge to stop her, Connolly yanks me back. I glare at him, but he shakes his head, wordlessly telling me that if she insists on doing this, I can’t take the risk along with her.

  It’s not a risk, though. It’s a certainty. This is a misanthrope’s malice. It will latch onto anyone who touches it.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Please—”

  She lifts the amulet and turns a sneer on me. “Whoops.”

  “Don’t lie,” I say. “Whatever you do, don’t tell a lie.”

  Her brows knit. “What are you prattling on about, girl?”

  “You hear it, don’t you? Or see it? However you interpret curses, you can read this one. And you know Greek, right?”

  “Of course I know Greek,” she snaps . . . and the hem of her dress bursts into flame.

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  Lesley-Ann shrieks. Connolly moves, as if to help her, but instead he shoves me farther away.