A Little Something Extra

by Pam McCutcheon

  Madame laughed. “You do not believe me, I can tell. Shall I convince you?”

  P.J. had to be honest. “You can try.” She glanced balefully at Connor to forestall any amused comments. Surprisingly, he seemed subdued, almost reverent as he gazed at the elderly woman.

  “Okay, I will show you.” The woman took P.J.’s hand in hers.

  Warily, P.J. said, “What are you going to do?” Familiar with the wailing and theatrics of charlatans, P.J. was reluctant to be involved in that kind of scene in such a public place.

  “I’m just going to hold your hand. You see my ring?”

  P.J. nodded. The large oval-cut amethyst was hard to miss.

  Madame turned it so the stone faced under her hand toward the palm. “This is my talisman—the amethyst enhances my natural abilities. I always knew the stone helped me, but until I met Mademoiselle O’Flaherty, I didn’t know why.” Madame gently clasped P.J.’s hand so the amethyst fit squarely in the center of P.J.’s palm and closed her eyes.

  As P.J. watched her in trepidation, she felt the stone grow warm in her hand—a pleasant kind of warmth, not at all uncomfortable. Thank heavens, Madame’s face remained serene and she didn’t start flinging her limbs about or start making dreadful gurgling noises like some so-called psychics did. In fact, the only movement P.J. could discern was the faint twitching of Madame’s eyelids.

  After a couple of minutes Madame Cherelle sighed and opened her eyes, releasing P.J.’s hand. “C’est ça,” she said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it, ma petite?”

  P.J. shook her head, trying to decide if she was disappointed that Madame hadn’t acted like all the others, or relieved. A moment of doubt assailed her. Could it be the Frenchwoman was so different because she really was psychic?

  Connor leaned forward, an intent look on his face. “What did you see?”

  Madame frowned a little and turned to P.J. “Your future is strangely clouded, difficult to see, as if there were something or someone interfering with my vision. I saw you in the mountains, in danger—”

  “Danger?” Connor interrupted. “What kind of danger?”

  “A…a man. A bad man—a thief. She is in danger from him.” Madame turned urgently back to P.J. “Though perilous, this will be the most important moment of your life. From it, you may conquer your malady and achieve the greatest joy of your existence—if you make the correct decision.” Madame grasped her hand again. “Do you understand? You must make the correct decision!”

  “Yes, I understand,” P.J. said, not knowing what else to say. She was baffled. The psychic had sounded so authentic at first, what with her revelation about the thief, but P.J. didn’t have any malady that she knew of. And what was her greatest joy?

  P.J. opened her mouth to ask more questions, then closed it. She didn’t have the right to question Madame Cherelle as if she were a phony. P.J. wasn’t investigating her, and she owed it to this gracious woman, so unlike the charlatans she’d met and unmasked, to act as if she believed Madame was telling the truth. Grilling her would just be bad manners.

  P.J. smiled reassuringly at Connor, and he sighed almost imperceptibly. “Are you all right?” he asked Madame.

  The old woman raised a shaky hand to her forehead. “Forgive me. I’m not as young as I once was, and this drains me. If you’ll excuse me, I need to be alone to gather my senses—some café wouldn’t come amiss, either.”

  Connor nodded and ordered her a cup of coffee. They said their goodbyes and boarded the metro back toward the hotel. “What did you whisper in her ear?” P.J. asked.

  “Only that I was Stayle’s brother and we knew she was faerie.”

  “Nothing else? Nothing about the theft of the shoehorn?”

  “Nay, lass, ‘twasn’t necessary.”

  P.J. nodded abstractedly. He really hadn’t had time to do that. “Then I wonder how she knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  “Knew that we were looking for a thief.”

  Connor just raised an eyebrow and flashed his dimple at her. “I’m thinking you’ll not be liking the answer.”

  “Magic, I suppose,” she said mildly. P.J. couldn’t even summon up enough indignation to respond as he obviously expected her to.

  “Aye,” Connor said with a surprised look on his face. “Do you mean you’ll be after believing me now?”

  P.J. shook her head. No, she still didn’t believe Connor was a leprechaun. But maybe, just maybe, Madame was a real psychic. Excitement rose within her. If so, then maybe magic was real after all!

  CONNOR’S HOPES ROSE. P.J. had actually sounded as if she was weakening, that she might have finally started believing in magic.

  As they entered their hotel he repeated his question. “Do you believe me now?”

  “I—I’m not sure…” The puzzled look on her face turned to annoyance as her eyes narrowed on something behind him. “Oh, no. Not again!” She grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t turn around. Maybe he won’t see us.”

  Connor did as she asked. “Who is it?”

  P.J. sighed. “Never mind. It’s too late.”

  “Well, hello!” said a voice from behind him. Connor’s patience almost vanished. He knew that voice.

  Slowly he turned and confirmed his suspicions. Neil Chalmers, damn him. Why did the man always have to turn up like a bad shilling where he wasn’t wanted? First New York, now Paris.

  Neil waved a rolled-up newspaper at them. “Wow, isn’t this a coincidence? It must be fate. You do believe in fate, don’t you?” Neil babbled as he approached.

  “No,” P.J. said in a clipped tone.

  “So,” Neil said cheerily, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tapped the newspaper in his palm. “Destiny has brought us together again. You ought to listen, P.J.—fate is telling you to heed my offer. You were born to be my elf queen.”

  Connor snorted in disgust as P.J. grimaced. “I told you,” she said, enunciating every word very care fully, “I’m not interested in acting.”

  “Yes,” Connor said in exasperation. “Can’t you take a hint?”

  Neil breezily waved it away. “Nonsense. Everyone wants to be in the movies. Besides, I have information you need.”

  Connor raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “And what will that be?”

  “Oh, just a little something on that shoe store P.J. is investigating—a juicy little tidbit that will help her prove there’s no magic in the shoes.”

  “Oh?” said P.J., sounding interested. “Like what?”

  “Well,” Neil said in a confiding manner, “it seems Stayle O’Flaherty’s brother was some kind of bigwig in stocks or something. He quit under very suspicious circumstances and poured all his money into his sister’s store. How much would you like to bet he made this whole magic thing up just to make sure his sister’s little shop would be a success?”

  What a disgusting troll. Connor clenched his fists, sorry that he laid claim to being a gentleman, even sorrier that Neil was so much smaller than him. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight.

  “Sorry, Chalmers, but that’s old news,” P.J. informed him. “And it doesn’t prove anything.”

  “You mean the shoes really do have magic?” Neil’s eyes widened. “How does it work?”

  “I meant no such thing,” P.J. said. “I’m sorry, but we must be going. I…I’m expecting an important phone call.”

  Connor grinned. P.J. was a lousy liar, but Neil certainly couldn’t call her bluff without looking like a cretin himself.

  P.J. brushed by Neil, who backpedaled hastily, taking himself out of Connor’s reach as Connor followed P.J. across the hotel lobby to the concierge.

  “Have there been any calls for me?” she asked in a penetrating voice.

  Neil had started to follow them, but upon receiving a glare from Connor, he changed his mind and scurried away.

  The concierge checked P.J.’s box. “No, mademoiselle, there are no telephone calls for you.”

  “Thank you. Is he gone?” she muttered out of the s
ide of her mouth.

  “No. He’s still lurking near the elevators, trying to appear as if he’s not looking at us.” Connor fingered a silky strand of P.J.’s hair. “Who would’ve thought P.J. Sheridan—the honest, upright citizen—would’ve stooped to lyin’? I’m that shocked at you, lass,” he said with a grin.

  P.J. glared at him and turned to the concierge. “May I use your phone?”

  The concierge nodded and moved away to serve another customer. P.J. picked up the receiver and pretended to talk into it. “You don’t fool me, Mr. O’Flaherty. You’d be just as glad to get rid of Neil as I would.” She paused, a pensive look on her face. “Don’t you find it odd that he’s shown up twice now? That’s a bit too much for coincidence.”

  “Aye, lass, that it is. What is it you’re thinking?”

  Her brow creased in a frown. “I just remembered—when you and Melissa were playing footsie out on the porch—”

  “Footsie?” he repeated incredulously.

  “Yes, footsie. Anyway, when I went inside to get her drink, Neil was sitting next to my briefcase. Then later, when I gave you a copy of the itinerary, there was one missing. I’ll bet—”

  “The sneak took it.”

  P.J. nodded. “My thoughts exactly. But why would he do such a thing?”

  The woman was far too modest. “‘Tis obvious. He wants to get to know you better. Whether ‘tis for his film or for himself, I’m not certain, but that’s what he wants.” Whatever Neil’s reason, Connor didn’t like the idea at all.

  P.J. grimaced. “Wonderful. How can we get rid of him?”

  “Ah, that’s the easy part. We’ll just change the itinerary. We’ll have to interview the same people, of course, but we’ll stay in different hotels so he won’t be able to find us.”

  P.J. nodded. “Good idea. Let’s arrange it.”

  Connor glanced at the elevators. “He’s gone now. You can hang up the phone…Penelope?”

  P.J. just glared at him. He tried again. “No? How about Polygon or maybe Paragon?”

  “Look—” P.J. began, only to be interrupted by a voice from across the room.

  “Wait! Connor, I must speak with you!” Bernard, the frantic hotel manager, came hurrying across the room.

  Bernard was a typical hob. Small, with brown skin and brown hair, he had a face that only a mother—or another hob—could love. Dressed in an impeccably tailored suit that spoke of his British origin, Bernard appeared flustered.

  Connor turned to face him, maintaining a polite expression. This was one of his subjects, and his duty dictated courtesy. “Bernard, it’s good to see you. I’d like you to meet P. J. Sheridan. P.J., this is our host and my…cousin.”

  P.J.’s incredulous look took in the disparity in their appearances. “Your cousin?”

  “In a matter of speaking, yes.” He lowered his voice. “He’s one of the Fae—one of my subjects.”

  P.J. raised one of her eyebrows but declined to comment.

  Bernard mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I didn’t know she was…one of us.”

  Connor shrugged. “She’s not, but it’s all right. She’s helping us find Stayle’s stolen talisman.”

  “I see,” said the little man, but he still cast a wary glance at P.J. “Sire, I need to speak to you about a matter of the utmost importance.”

  “Sire?” P.J. echoed.

  Connor grimaced. “I told you not to call me that-not even in private. It’s just Connor. And don’t worry, you can talk in front of her.”

  “Perhaps, but I don’t really want to discuss this matter in the lobby. Would you mind coming to my office?”

  “Certainly,” he said. P.J. didn’t have any objections, either. In fact, she looked downright eager and very curious.

  They followed Bernard to his office and, seating himself next to the desk, Connor said, “Now, what is it you’re needing?”

  Bernard shuddered. “It’s horrible. Just horrible. One of our security guards was a little careless this morning…He lost his weapon!”

  “Lost it? What do you mean?” When Bernard appeared too agitated to speak, Connor said soothingly, “Just calm down and tell me everything that happened.”

  Bernard took a few deep breaths and tried again. “It was early this morning, around two a.m. He left his station for a few moments to, er, use the facilities, and left his pistol in the desk at his station. It wasn’t loaded, of course, but when he came back it was gone!”

  “I see. And what is it you’ll be wanting me to do?”

  “Who knows what nefarious purposes the perpetrator might have in mind? I can’t expose my guests to a murdering psychopath,” the little man wailed.

  “Now, don’t fash yourself, Bernard. What d’you want me to do?”

  “Could you…could you use your magic to find the firearm and the person who took it?”

  “Aye,” Connor agreed, grinning. “That I could.”

  Finally, this was his chance to use real magic and show P.J. he was telling the truth. After all, it was his duty as king of the Fae to use it to assist his subjects whenever they requested—so long as the request was reasonable. And this request was more than reasonable. He’d be able to kill two birds with one stone.

  P.J. cast him a doubtful look and Connor grinned at her.

  “It may be a bit difficult, though, since the gun probably has more than a wee bit o’ iron in it. Iron,” he reminded them, “interferes with a spell something awful.”

  P.J.’s look seemed to say she knew he’d find some way to weasel out if the magic didn’t work.

  Bernard shuddered. “I know…but could you try?”

  “Why can’t you just do it yourself?” P.J. asked Bernard.

  Bernard gave her a horrified look. “I’m a hob, not a leprechaun.”

  Connor took pity on her and explained. “Hob magic is more suited to keeping the home and hearth, and is limited to that, whilst a leprechaun’s magic is basically boundless, though not without price, of course.”

  “Oh. Of course,” P.J. said, looking thoroughly unconvinced.

  “Now, Bernard, do you have anything the gun was touching, perchance?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I have the holster.” Bernard reached into his desk drawer and pulled out the brown leather holster. Touching it with only his thumb and forefinger, he dropped it on the desk with a look of distaste.

  Connor picked it up and held it in his hands, trying to get some sense of the weapon that had rested there recently. Closing his eyes, he focused on the power in his talisman ring and drew on the strength of his magic. Bit by bit, he constructed the incantation in his mind, a simple spell that would show him the identity of the people who had touched the holster in the past twenty-four hours.

  The spell built, he quickly muttered the appropriate Gaelic words and focused his power through the ring to touch the core of his magic.

  Slowly the images coalesced in his mind. They appeared in reverse order, working backward from the present.

  Connor, reaching out to accept the holster from Bernard as P.J. looked on.

  An agitated uniformed guard handing the holster to Bernard.

  The guard staring at the empty holster with a horrified look on his face.

  Then, finally, the scene he’d been waiting for:

  The gun sitting in its holster in the desk. An indistinct figure reaching for it-Suddenly everything went gray and fuzzy. With a curse, Connor cut the vision off.

  He opened his eyes to find Bernard and P.J. staring at him: one in anxiety and the other in suspicion. Connor grimaced. Terrific. Why did his magic have to fail him now, just when he needed it most?

  “Well?” Bernard demanded impatiently. “Did you learn who purloined it?”

  Connor shook his head sadly. “No, I’m sorry, Bernard. I tried to get a look at the thief, but there was something interfering.”

  P.J. raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “The iron, I suppose?”

  “No, no…it was more as if the thief used
a masking spell, or something was disrupting my ability to sense him magically.”

  “You mean the perpetrator is…one of us?” Bernard asked in horror.

  “It certainly looks that way,” Connor admitted. “Do you know of anyone locally who would misuse their power in such a way?”

  “No,” Bernard said. “Not really. There are some bad apples hereabouts, but they know better than to come into my hotel, and I have wards out to watch for them. If one of them had entered, I would have known it.”

  “You mean there are good faeries and bad faeries?” P.J. obviously had trouble suppressing a grin.

  Bernard’s answering look was full of disgust. “Of course. Just as there are good mortals and bad mortals.”

  Connor couldn’t resist a chance to tease her. “Yes, after all, we’re only…faerie.”

  P.J. just grimaced at the bad joke. Ignoring the byplay, Bernard said, “But surely you could try a different spell, one to show us where the pistol is at this moment.”

  “I could,” Connor said, “but I doubt it would do much good if it’s in the possession of this bad faerie.”

  P.J. chuckled and Bernard cast her a dirty look.

  “I’m sorry,” she said around a grin, “but if you knew how silly that sounds…”

  Bernard merely huffed and turned his back on her. “It is no laughing matter, I assure you. Sire, please, perform the spell.”

  Connor obliged him and focused his power once more, this time to get a mental image of the gun’s surroundings. Slowly the image took shape. The gun appeared to be wrapped in some sort of cloth and hidden in a dark drawer somewhere. The thief wasn’t touching it, so the image was quite clear, but it was so dark he could glean few details.

  He gave up, terminating the spell, and told them what he’d seen. “I’m sorry I can’t do any better,” he said with real regret. His people so seldom asked anything of him that it bothered him when he couldn’t satisfy this simple request.

  Bernard wrung his hands. “Isn’t there anything else you can do?”

  Connor shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. I can’t even locate it properly—the iron in the gun throws off the results.” An idea came to him. “But we might be able to determine how it will be used in the near future. What do you fear the most?”