A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  “You said most of you have only a little magic. What about the rest?”

  “Well, our magic depends on our gold.”

  She raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Your mutual funds?”

  “Right, lass. The more gold, or money, we have, the more magic we have. And the more magic we have, the stronger and more ‘real’ our glamarye.”

  “Okay,” she challenged. “Prove it. Show me your magic.”

  “Ah, lass, I can’t be doin’ that.”

  “Why not? Afraid I’ll prove you’re a phony?”

  Her challenge didn’t seem to bother him one whit. “No, but the magic has a price. Y’see, each time I use it, some of my gold vanishes. If I use it too much, the power diminishes to the point where I don’t have it when I really need it. And with inflation growing the way ‘tis, I have to be very careful not to let it eat up all my magic.”

  She regarded him skeptically. “But surely a very small demonstration wouldn’t hurt.”

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Y’see, I promised my people I’d use the glamarye only when it was absolutely necessary. And since I’ve only had my position a month, I need to be right careful how I spend it. You don’t get to be king of the little people by squanderin’ their magical inheritance.”

  “You’re their…king?”

  He nodded and P.J. grimaced to herself. Great, now he had delusions of grandeur—royalty, no less. She’d better get out of there, fast. Rising once more, she turned toward the door. “I’m sorry, Mr…Connor, but I don’t think I can help you.”

  Connor strode to the door, blocking her exit with one long arm. “Now wait, lass. You haven’t even heard me out.”

  She visually measured his height and breadth. There was no way she’d be able to shove her way past, so she might as well humor him. “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “I want to use your experience and reputation as a cover for an investigation of my own.”

  “And that is?”

  “My sister’s talisman has been stolen, and I need to be gettin’ it back.”

  P.J. had a feeling she’d regret asking, but she did it anyway. “What kind of talisman, exactly?”

  “Well now, each leprechaun has a bit of talisman gold he keeps about his person, y’see. ‘Tis the focus for his magic and represents all the gold he’s accumulated.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  “It could be anything—a gold watch, a necklace, a bracelet, a key ring. Anything.”

  “Oh? What’s yours?”

  He held up his right hand. “My ring—the shield of the O’Flaherty clan.”

  “I see. And your sister’s?” As he hesitated, P.J. pictured a delicate necklace, whimsical earrings or perhaps a stunning jeweled orb.

  Connor looked sheepish. “‘Tis a shoehorn.”

  “A shoehorn? A shoehorn?” This situation was getting more ridiculous by the minute.

  “Aye, ‘tis necessary, y’see—to work her magic in the shop. The magic she adds to the shoes is the ‘something extra’ in our name.”

  “Magic shoes,” she said flatly. He expected her to believe this?

  “Yes, for some reason, we leprechauns do seem to have an affinity for footwear. My sister Stayle designs shoes to fit people’s personalities. When she fits the shoes, she adds a little glamarye to enhance their best attributes and project their true qualities to those around them.”

  “So what if the person is basically rotten? Will the shoes project that?”

  “Aye, but Stayle cannot abide letting her magic help someone like that, so she adds more glamarye to sort of push them in the direction of the right.”

  Ah, an inconsistency. “But doesn’t that use up her magic?”

  “Yes, but we cater to those with lots of gold to spare. We charge them twice what it costs her to make them, so each time she uses her magic, she’s actually strengthening it.”

  P.J. gave up. He had an answer for everything-now it was interest-bearing magic, no less. “Okay, but you still haven’t told me how you need my help.”

  “Ah, well, y’see, we’ve narrowed the suspects down to five people who were in the shop the day the talisman turned up missin’. They were the only ones who had access to the room we reserve for our special clients—those who order the ‘something extra.’“

  He leaned forward confidentially. “Now, lass, here’s what I’d like you to do. Everyone knows we advertise that our shoes have magic, but nary a one really believes it. I’d like you to interview our five suspects for one of your stories to try and prove we’re full of blarney.”

  This was certainly a new twist. “You want me to prove you’re lying?”

  He flashed that dimple again. “I want you to try, at any rate. Since none of the suspects have met me, I’ll accompany you as your photographer. When I shake their hands and they come in contact with my talisman, I’ll be able to tell if they’ve handled Stayle’s.”

  “Why go through all that? Why don’t you just use your magic to find it, if it’s that important?”

  “A talisman, by its very nature, is secretive and hard to find. ‘Twould take a very great deal of magic indeed to locate one when we don’t know for certain where ‘tis. ‘Tis far more cost-effective this way, y’see.”

  That didn’t sound very promising. “And what is that cost, Mr. O’Flaherty? Just how much do you propose to pay me?”

  “Connor,” he corrected her, then named a figure that made her whistle.

  “That’s cost-effective? The magic must really be expensive.”

  “And since the suspects are located throughout the United States and Europe, I’ll be payin’ your expenses, too.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You’re going to give me a handsome salary and pay my expenses to travel all over the world, just to find a shoehorn?”

  “Yes, a solid-gold magic shoehorn.”

  “And I can write the story any way I want, even expose you as a bunch of charlatans if that’s how I figure it plays?”

  “Yes, lass, even that.”

  P.J.’s natural caution asserted itself. “Your offer is very tempting, but I’d like a few days to think about it.”

  A frown creased the brow of the friendly giant. “Can you possibly see your way clear to makin’ it one day, lass? We’re in an awful bind without the talisman, y’see.”

  He certainly seemed sincere, and he wasn’t really asking much. “All right, Mr. O’Flaherty,” she said decisively. “I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.”

  P.J. left the office, her reporter’s mind already working. She had plenty of time to check him out, see if he had a police record, a history of mental illness, a wife…

  Chapter Two

  As the door closed behind P.J., Connor chuckled. It was easy to see that the skeptical and very lovely Miss Sheridan was wary. She had a right to be. Faerie folk—the Fae—didn’t often reveal themselves to mortals, but in this case it was a calculated risk—a necessary one. He had to get Stayle’s talisman back, and soon.

  The object of his thoughts came bursting into the room, a miniature version of himself, with short, gamin-cut red-gold hair and a piquant face. “Connor O’Flaherty, what have you done?” Stayle shrieked at him.

  Uh-oh. That was the problem with having one of the Fae as his receptionist. Glenna considered his doings as fair gossip for the rest of his people—especially his sister. Plastering an innocent look on his face, Connor said, “Why, nothin’. What is it you’re blathering on about?”

  Stayle planted her fists on her hips and glared at him. “You know what I’m talkin’ about, Connor O’Flaherty, that reporter who was here. Are you really going to hire a mortal to find me talisman?”

  “Now, now, lass, let me explain.”

  “You’d better explain, and quickly, too.”

  “Come now, Stayle, sit yourself down and relax.” He led her to the couch in his office and shut the door.

  She sat there stiffly, glaring at him with an u
ncompromising stare. “Well?”

  “You know how expensive ‘twould be to use magic to find the talisman—”

  “And whose fault is that, I’d like to know? If you hadn’t put that extra glamarye on it, ‘twouldn’t be so blasted expensive.”

  “Aye, but I didn’t spend any more than I had to. My position is very precarious.”

  “I’ll say! Your ‘modern business ways’ don’t exactly endear ye to most of the faerie folk. They’ll not be trusting ye much longer unless they see some results.”

  “I fully intend to keep my promises, but I can’t if I squander my gold on finding your talisman.”

  “Squander, is it?” Stayle rose in outrage. “I’ll have ye know—”

  “Shut your gob,” Connor said affectionately, “and hear me out. There’s a better way of finding your talisman without spending so much gold and magic.”

  Stayle gave an unfeminine snort. “By hiring a mortal, I suppose.”

  “That’s right. She’s an investigative reporter and trained to be seekin’ out information. What I’m payin’ her is less than one-tenth of what it would cost to use my magic, and I can call in favors from the Fae to house and feed us in our travels.”

  “Why can’t you hire one of our own kind?”

  “Because none of us have the skill she does. Besides, my talisman led me to her as our best chance for success. And we don’t know for sure she isn’t our kind, y’know.”

  “And just what makes ye think she might be faerie?”

  “Sheridan is a good Irish name, and she’s the look of the black Irish about her. Long, dark hair, eyes as dark and bright as the starlit sky and a complexion as smooth as cream.”

  Stayle cocked her head speculatively. “Sounds like you’re smitten, Connor me lad. Are you sure ‘tisn’t just your hormones talking?”

  Aye, his hormones were talking loud and strong, but he never let them overpower his common sense or his responsibility to his people. “Nay, lass, I wanted to hire her before I met her.”

  Stayle’s ire visibly faded as she glanced at Connor worriedly. “Still and all, she’s probably mortal, y’know. And you promised you’d only marry a lass with faerie blood.”

  Yes, he had, and he meant it. He could hardly do anything less to meet his commitment to his people. “I know, I know. But just because I find her appealin’ doesn’t mean I plan to marry her.”

  Stayle raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think—”

  “I’m sorry, Stayle,” he interrupted her gently. “But it’s not your decision. As you reminded me, I’m the king of the Fae, and I say we find your talisman by hiring this mortal.”

  Her anger flared again. “You’d better be right, or I’ll challenge your leadership meself.”

  Connor nodded. He wasn’t really worried about Stayle’s challenge, but if he didn’t do this right, the rest of the Fae wouldn’t be so understanding. The hereditary title of “king” was a misnomer; the Fae had borrowed the mortal system of democracy years ago, and he was subject to recall at any time. “I am right, you’ll see,” he reassured her. He had to be.

  Stayle’s expression turned pleading. “I…I need me talisman, Connor—soon. I can’t keep the store open while I’m so worried—I can’t concentrate. I’ll try it your way, but only for a month. If you don’t find it by then, promise me you’ll use the magic, and to the devil with your position.”

  Connor clasped his sister’s hands in his, feeling a bit guilty. Despite the torture she was going through, she still trusted him. He’d find that cursed talisman if it was the last thing he did. “Yes, Stayle, I promise. One month.”

  Stayle dashed a tear from her eye and strode out the door. Being Stayle, she couldn’t resist having the last word. “And don’t you go getting attached to that mortal, hear?”

  Connor chuckled. With a little luck, P. J. Sheridan wouldn’t prove to be totally mortal. Considering his instantaneous attraction to her, and her affinity for magic, she had to have some faerie blood. He’d bet on it.

  P.J. PARKED HER CAR outside the pedestrian village and shrugged into her wool coat before making the short walk to Connor O’Flaherty’s offices. She’d promised the man an answer today, and he’d get it…just as soon as she figured out what it was. She had a few questions she wanted to ask the oversize lepre chaun first.

  Leprechaun, indeed! P.J. had an open mind about the existence of magic, and preferred to give those she investigated the benefit of the doubt, but faeries?

  Most of the stories she’d investigated had at least possessed some basis in logical physical laws or could be explained by the power of the subconscious mind-an observable scientific fact. But this man claimed his magic was based on the amount of cold, hard cash he had in the bank. It was just too ludicrous.

  Be honest, she admonished herself as she walked down the steps toward Bridge Street. It’s not the type of magic that’s bothering you—it’s the man who’s claiming it. With his size and drop-dead looks, he didn’t need to draw attention to himself. Why was he doing this?

  P.J. could only come up with two possible explanations. Either he was suffering from a powerful delusion, or someone was playing an elaborate trick on her—someone who knew of her inquisitive nature and search for true magic.

  But who? No one she knew had the wherewithal to pull off such a costly trick. And her investigation of O’Flaherty and his company showed they’d been in business for over six months—a long time to set up such a deception.

  In a way, she hoped he was part of an elaborate scheme to deceive her. At least then she wouldn’t have to worry about his mental health. No, to be honest, she didn’t have to worry about that, either. Her investigation had shown no evidence of mental illness or a police record. She smiled secretly. There was no evidence of a wife or girlfriend, either.

  P.J. sighed. Okay, so neither hypothesis seemed to fit. Whatever his reasons, Connor had offered her a lucrative job and she owed him an answer.

  Yes, but in person? her conscience nagged at her. She could have asked her questions and given him her answer by phone just as easily. She didn’t have to see him again.

  But it was always easier to talk to someone in person, she argued back. Facial expressions and body language sometimes provided more information than mere words and inflection—something good reporters learned early on. So she really needed to see him, to get an idea of whether he was on the level.

  But that didn’t explain why she’d taken such care with her appearance this morning, why she’d worn her new gray flannel slacks with the expensive blouse. She just wanted to look…professional Yeah, that was it. Professional.

  Never mind that the icy pink blouse complemented her complexion nicely. Never mind that it made her hair look rich and shiny. Never mind that…Ah, hell. She wanted to look good for Connor O’Flaherty. She wanted him to think she was pretty. She wanted to knock him off his size-thirteen penny loafers.

  There, she’d finally admitted it. Now she could go on with the interview without worrying about her own motives.

  P.J. stopped in front of the clothing shop below Connor’s office and considered what approach she should take. It would probably be best to act on the assumption he was a real leprechaun, or at least that he believed he was, and see where things went from there.

  Having formulated her strategy, P.J. strode quickly up the stairs into the Something Extra offices and opened the door to find Connor O’Flaherty perched casually on the corner of his receptionist’s desk. P.J. felt a momentary twinge of envy. They certainly looked cozy, she thought.

  The two looked up as P.J. opened the door, and Connor straightened, giving her a genuine smile that lit his beautiful green eyes and made her feel as if she were the only person in the world. Her heart stopped beating for a moment, then resumed its pace fourfold. The man was just as devastating as she remembered. “P.J., it’s so nice to see you again,” he said warmly. “Have you come to give me your answer?”

  “Yes, I have.” P.J. kept her to
ne crisp and businesslike to keep from revealing just how attractive she found this man. “But I have a few more questions first.”

  “Well, then, shall we go into my office?”

  He ushered her into his office, and P.J. tried to ignore the speculative look Glenna gave them before Connor shut the door. What did the woman’s look mean? Was she jealous? Or, worse, had she divined P.J.’s growing infatuation with her handsome boss? Neither supposition was very palatable, and P.J. pushed them to the back of her mind.

  She took off her coat and sat down, feeling rewarded by Connor’s appreciative sidelong glance. “Now, what can I tell you, lass?”

  P.J. cleared her throat nervously. “Your offer is very tempting, Mr. O’Flaherty—”

  Disappointment flooded his countenance. “I thought you’d agreed to call me Connor.”

  She had, but “Connor” sounded so intimate, and she didn’t quite trust herself to be that familiar—yet.

  It was even more difficult to disappoint him.

  “All right…Connor.” He rewarded her with a wide, open smile that was difficult to resist. “Your offer is very tempting, but I’m confused about a few things, so I have some questions to ask you.”

  “Fire away, lass,” he said in his wonderful Irish lilt.

  “Well, first of all, why do you have an accent? According to my research, you were born and raised here in the United States and have been to Ireland only on short trips.”

  Not at all perturbed by the revelation that she’d been checking him out, Connor said, “Well, it’s like this, lass. Y’see, my people came to Colorado in the 1859 gold rush. I’m sure you can understand why.”

  His twinkling green eyes invited her to share his amusement. “To get more gold to increase your magic, I suppose.”

  “Of course. Well, we did quite well seeing as how we have an affinity for the yellow stuff, and many of our brethren followed us across the ocean from Ireland to make their fortunes, too. Being so far from home, we sort of stayed close together, tight knit, you’d say. And, naturally, the love of Ireland brought us closer. No matter where they live, the Fae feel a kinship for the Emerald Isle, and we keep her traditions and language alive.”