Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  The others join us, Jonathan and Vanessa deep in conversation. Seeing the tea caddy, Vanessa stops short.

  “Dear Lord,” she says. “That is a travesty.”

  “I was just thinking how cute it was,” Marius says. “A kitty caddy.”

  “No,” Vanessa says as she sets down her coffee. “Just no.”

  “Sorry, I’m with Marius on this one,” I say. “But you and Aiden can shudder together over it. What’d you call it, Connolly? A kitschy piece of trash?”

  Marius sputters. “It’s Victorian rosewood. Whatever you think of the design—which I maintain is cute—it’s hardly trash.”

  “Right?” I say. “It’s a quality antique. The real artistry, though, is the curse. That’s why I was loath to remove it. It’s an expert weaving.”

  Ani’s brows rise as she looks from me to the box and back.

  “Don’t give me that look,” I say. “A jinx can be fine art.”

  “Not questioning that. Just . . . Well, it’s an odd canvas for a master, isn’t it? Cursing a cat tea caddy with a cat-hair jinx? It’s a little . . .”

  “Kitschy?” I turn to the others. “Specializing in the joker’s jinx requires a certain personality, which is why our mom and Yiayia got me hooked on jinxes. It’s part innate talent and part personality match. A jinx specialist—even a master of the art—is going to have an off-kilter sense of humor and a taste for, yes, kitsch.”

  “But the fact it’s an expert jinx means something, doesn’t it?” Jonathan says. “It’s a rare specialty, usually avoided by serious weavers. No offense, K.”

  “None taken. Your point, however, is taken. So I’ll ask Ani for a second opinion.”

  I step back from the table and wave Ani up. Our methods in weaving, as in most things, are different. I’m attuned to the music, those whispered threads to be followed and untangled. I remember talking about that when I was young and new to curse weaving. I figured it was the same for everyone. Like the process of riding a bike. Ani had just stared at me.

  Music? What music? It’s a problem. Like a mathematical equation.

  Mom and Yiayia explained that different weavers experience curses in different ways. Ani didn’t actually see numbers, but it felt like working out a math problem. I don’t hear real music—it just feels that way. And for Hope, it’s like opening a book, a story leaping off the pages.

  Different curse experiences mean different uncursing methods. I listen and absorb and mentally follow strains of music like threads in a tapestry. Ani leans over the box, staring at it. Then her gloved hands open the lid and turn the box over and poke and prod.

  Finally, she sets it down and turns to me, looking slightly dazed. “That is . . .” She blinks and rubs her wrist over her eyes. “Unexpected.”

  “Am I right then? It’s a doctoral class in curse weaving.”

  She nods. “I’m not sure I’ve even encountered anything quite like it. Certainly not in a jinx.”

  “No offense, K,” I murmur.

  “You know what I mean. And I hope you also know what I mean when I say this isn’t like any jinx I’ve encountered. You’re good. Really good. But this is . . .”

  “I’m a decent journeyman. This is the work of a master. Way beyond my skill.”

  “Beyond your unweaving skill?” Connolly cuts in, sounding puzzled.

  He’s been quiet until now. He does that, I’ve realized. Receding into the background to observe and assimilate. The guy I met that first morning seemed like the sort who’d always be in the middle of any room, making his opinions known. That can be Connolly when it suits him. And this is him, too, when he’s acknowledging he’s not the professional in this sphere.

  I shake my head. “I can unweave it easily enough. It’s . . . hard to explain. Weaving curses is like building a house of Lego. You can jam the pieces into a log cabin shape, or you can recreate the Taj Mahal. Both are just as easy to break down. In that case, though, everyone would see the difference. This is . . .”

  “Like keeping your ledgers neat—tidy handwriting, color-coded headings, annotated categories,” Ani says. “It doesn’t affect the figures, but another accountant would see and appreciate the difference.”

  “Ultimately,” I say, “it means nothing for the uncursing. We’re just admiring the work. We might not agree on the caddy itself, but we can agree on that.”

  “It does mean something, though,” Connolly says. “Who has the skill to weave a jinx like that? When I was asking after a jinx specialist, your name was the only one that kept popping up.”

  “That’s flattering,” I say. “It’d be more flattering if it wasn’t such a limited field of expertise. My guess is that we aren’t dealing with an expert in jinxes. It’s an expert curse weaver overall. I can weave any curse. I’m just best at jinxes. Anyway, enough speculation on that. Whoever sent this may have hired an expert weaver. Or they may have bought it already jinxed, meaning whoever wove it is long dead.”

  I glance at the others. “Okay, glove up and take a look. We’re trying to find clues on the box unconnected to the weaving. Secret hatches. Coded messages. Whatever.”

  Vanessa goes first. Then Connolly, Jonathan and Marius. Each takes their time. This is a puzzle, after all, and everyone here has the curiosity and the ego to want to be the one who solves it. Marius has laid out a tiny screwdriver—the sort used to repair eyeglasses—to let us carefully poke and pry without damaging the caddy. We spend a half hour at it, only to conclude that the tea caddy is just a tea caddy. Cursed, yes, but otherwise unremarkable.

  It’s time to tackle that one remarkable thing.

  I pull on gloves. “I really hate doing this. Feels like smashing a priceless vase.”

  “I could unweave it,” Ani says. “If you’d prefer.”

  “I’d prefer not to unweave it at all. But since this caddy seems significant and we can’t find any other clues, it seems someone wanted it uncursed.”

  I take out my kit. As Connolly has pointed out, I don’t always need it. I can weave—and unweave—minor curses without it. That impressed him, but it hardly makes me a supercharged weaver. Ani has argued it makes me a reckless one. The kit is for our safety. It contains herbs and charms to protect us against a backfire.

  Ani always uses her kit, even for the simplest curses. It’s easily done, so why not protect yourself? Yet there are times when you don’t have your kit and really need to cast a minor curse—like jinxing a police officer’s coffee cup into a dribble glass. Ani sees the kit as a bike helmet, always essential. I see it as training wheels, and I want to learn to operate without it. That means learning precision and care, the opposite of recklessness.

  Whatever our philosophies, this isn’t the time to practice my parachute-free weaving. I arrange the herbs and charms in a protective circle around the tea caddy. Then I adjust the desk lamp Marius supplied. Finally, I examine the caddy, as if it’s the first time I’ve done this, running my gloved hands over it.

  When the first notes of the curse slide toward me, I close my eyes and focus on them. This is always tricky. My brain insists I’ve already done this and wants to leap ahead to the unweaving. I’m impatient by nature, and this feels like studying a textbook page after I’ve already memorized it. I have to remind myself that curses are indeed more like music, open to interpretation, each listening a new discovery. I must hear this melody again, unhindered by my memory of it.

  There are lessons to be learned here. Take my time and appreciate the work of a master. Follow the tune, unweave the threads. Find the dangling end. There it is, tucked under another thread. Tease it out and—

  The end catches. It’s the tiniest catch, one that I wouldn’t have even noticed if I weren’t so focused. After all, it’s a minor curse. I could unweave it with all the skill of a five-year-old ripping open birthday presents. Yet I’m feeling my way with care, and when that tug catches, just a little, I pause.

  The world contracts to this curse. I don’t hear the others shifting an
d breathing. I don’t even feel the tea caddy under my gloved hands. It’s just me and that thread, and I swear it takes shape in front of my eyes, a tiny golden thread that seems so innocent and shiny, only to rear back and flash fangs.

  Trouble.

  “No,” the curse seems to whisper. “There’s nothing wrong here. Just pretty golden threads, tied so masterfully. A simple curse, expertly woven. There’s beauty in simplicity, isn’t there? No need to look deeper.”

  I snort under my breath. A sound behind me, and I turn to see Connolly rocking forward, Ani’s sharp glance warning him not to disturb me. His eyes meet mine, and they’re troubled. Concerned.

  “There’s something odd here,” I say. “Let me try again.” Now Ani’s the one rocking forward, and I raise a gloved hand. “I’ll be careful.”

  I lay my hands on the caddy and close my eyes again. I don’t rush the process. Now I have reason for patience. The curse reappears, those pretty golden threads, the loose end dangling so innocently.

  Nothing odd here. Come give me a tug.

  I touch the thread. Then I take it gingerly and—

  That resistance again. It’s slight, and I know I could pull through. I also know I shouldn’t. Instead, I work other threads, nudging them aside. There’s something in this artful tangle. Something hidden—

  And there it is.

  “Tricky bastard,” I whisper. “Almost got me, didn’t you?”

  “Kennedy?” Connolly says.

  I turn to them. “There’s a hidden curse. Like a grenade. If I tried to uncurse the outer one, I’d have triggered a bigger curse.”

  “Then leave it,” Ani says. “I don’t want you getting hurt, and this has nothing to do with Hope.”

  “We don’t know that. I’ll be careful, but I want a closer look.”

  Her mouth opens to argue, but a glance from Jonathan stops her. I tune that out and return to the curse. Ani’s right—this almost certainly has nothing to do with Hope or the necklace. In speculating otherwise, I’m defending simple curiosity. But I can’t help it. This curse gets more interesting by the second, and it’s not as if we’re under a time crunch.

  I nudge back those golden threads from the hard wire below. Then I start in on that one, urging it to play its own tune. The outer jinx drowns it out. Like a two-person pickpocket team, one distracting my attention while the other lifts my wallet.

  No matter how hard I focus, I can’t tease out that second melody. I ask Ani to try, and she does, but she isn’t able to even see the hidden curse.

  “I’m no good at jinxes,” she says. “I can pick up the cat-hair one, but that’s it.”

  There’s only one thing to do, then. And I do it fast before anyone can stop me. Whip off a glove and touch the caddy barehanded. Both Ani and Connolly surge forward, but it’s too late. My fingers are pressed skin to wood.

  The threads dazzle now, the music crystal clear. When I push past the outer jinx, the inner curse starts a whispering song.

  “Oh,” I murmur. “You cheeky little devil.”

  I ignore the shifting of the others behind me, their movements betraying their impatience. This is a song for two, a melody for my ears only, and I must give it my undivided attention. When I finally pull back, I’m grinning.

  “You’ve solved it?” Vanessa asks.

  “Nope. But I know what it is. Gambler’s gambit.”

  Connolly frowns. “Gambler’s . . .”

  “Gambit. An opening chess play. Put your pawns in danger in hopes of gaining the advantage.”

  “I know what a gambit is. I just haven’t heard of that sort of curse.”

  “It’s related to the jinx,” I say. “Kissing cousins. The gambit is much rarer because it requires serious skill. It’s a weaver’s game. A challenge.”

  His brows crease. “For the owner of the object?”

  “No, it’s a challenge—usually a friendly one—to another weaver. I said the inner curse was like a grenade. That’s not quite accurate. The inner curse is the gambit. I have two choices. I can unweave the cat-hair jinx, and the tea caddy will be fine. Or I can gamble and try unweaving the inner curse for a bigger reward.”

  “Which is?” Connolly says.

  I shrug. “No idea. That’s the gamble.”

  “And if you fail?”

  “Then the original jinx stays on permanently, and the inner one locks—it can’t be unwoven to win the prize. The question is whether I bother trying for the gambit or just play it safe and remove the cat-hair jinx. In this case, it’s not really a question at all. The curse is a minor one. I don’t risk much if it stays on. So it’s a friendly challenge, first to see whether I notice the gambit and then whether I can unweave it.”

  “It was a test then,” Jonathan says. “Someone else, presumably interested in the necklace, was testing your skill.”

  “Meaning it’s pointless now, isn’t it?” Ani says. “Interesting, and I’m intrigued myself, but we’re far past the point of caring who else wanted the necklace. We just need to uncurse it.”

  “I’m going to work on this,” I say. “You guys can go discuss the plan for tonight.”

  “Is there a plan?” Jonathan says. “Besides trying to uncurse the necklace? I don’t see that there’s much else to strategize about. Havoc put the necklace on Hope, but she’s not going to leave it there. If she did, we’d try to take Hope and run. She’ll keep them separate. Rescue Hope, and she’ll be stuck with the curse. Even then, I don’t think there’s much point fleeing with Hope. Havoc isn’t going to keep her if you fail to uncurse the necklace.”

  “Is that what we expect?” Ani says, glancing at Marius and Vanessa. “If we fail with the necklace, she’ll turn over Hope and . . .” A look Connolly’s way.

  “Rian,” he says. “Havoc doesn’t seem to be threatening to kill them if we fail. But I’m not sure she’s thought that one through.”

  “She hasn’t thought anything through,” Vanessa says. “That’s the problem dealing with Havoc. She’s making this up as she goes.”

  “Presumably,” Marius says, “if you can’t uncurse the necklace, she’ll return your siblings, but Hope will stay cursed.”

  Vanessa shakes her head. “There will be more. She’ll realize she hasn’t thought this through and come up with another threat. But Jonathan is right. At this point, I don’t see backup plans. The goal is to uncurse the necklace. That’s Havoc’s goal, and with Hope cursed, it’s also yours. The only potential ‘plan’ is to be prepared for an unweaving.”

  “I’m prepared,” I say. “Well, as much as I can be. I could use some sleep. And I’ll want to ask more questions about the necklace. But right now, I’d like to work on this. It’ll help me as much as anything.”

  “A distraction,” Vanessa says. “All right, then. We’ll leave you to it so we aren’t hanging over your shoulder.”

  “I’d like to stay,” Connolly says. “If that’s all right. I’ll be quiet.”

  Ani starts to say she’ll stay, too, but I shake my head.

  “It isn’t dangerous,” I say. “And I know you think I’m wasting my time. I can focus better if you’re doing something you feel is helpful.”

  She hesitates and then nods, and a few moments later, they’re gone, leaving me with Connolly and the curse.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Connolly and I are alone in the room with the tea caddy. Once everyone’s gone, he says, “I can leave if it will bother you, but I think it’s best if someone’s here. For your protection.”

  “It really is fine,” I say. “Either way. You can stay, but please don’t feel obligated.”

  “I don’t.”

  “All right,” I say. “Then I’ll put you to use. Distract me.”

  His brows rise.

  “Clear my head,” I say. “The curse is still ping-ponging around in there, and I’d like to reexamine it with an open mind.”

  He nods. “Right. Well, I . . .”

  He looks around, clearly searching for a
topic of conversation. When his gaze goes to the window, the dark cloud of weather-related commentary threatens, and I jump into the gap.

  “Have you spoken to your parents?” I say.

  “You mean telling them that I rescued my brother . . . and lost him again three hours later? Yes, I did.”

  “You didn’t lose him. He was kidnapped.”

  “I rescued him from a kidnapping, only to have him kidnapped by someone else? Ah, yes, that’s better.”

  “Rian isn’t a child, Connolly. He’s an adult. A responsible—well, an adult anyway. He’s what, my age?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “An adult, who did not want to be stashed in a hotel room, and you respected that. Ultimately, the only person responsible for Rian being kidnapped is the person who kidnapped him. If your parents don’t see that, then I hope you’ve reminded them that they didn’t even tell you he’d been kidnapped in the first place. Did they explain themselves?”

  “Their explanation is that they were handling it as they saw fit, and as my parents, they don’t need to explain themselves.”

  “Seriously? That’s what they’re going with? ‘Because we’re the parents, that’s why.’”

  “This isn’t helping you clear your mind and relax, is it?”

  “I don’t need the relaxing part. Just the mental palate cleanser. This did it. Thank you.” I give myself a shake. Then I look at him. “How are you doing? Not about your parents—that’s none of my business. Otherwise, though?”

  “Angry with myself for not insisting Rian go to that hotel. But, as you say, he’s an adult. I just . . .” He shrugs. “I didn’t push because he made me feel I was being unreasonable.”

  “Just don’t say ‘I told you so’ when you see him again. As the reckless younger sister of an uber-responsible sibling, I can guarantee he’s already feeling the sting of that. Just like he felt the sting of you rescuing him.”

  Connolly nods. “I’ll remember that. And how are you doing?”

  “Feeling like an idiot for being in the same house as Hope while she was being re-kidnapped.”