The Lost Enchantress

by Patricia Coughlin

  “You’re sure it was the pendant?” she asked. “You did say your memory of that night is hazy.”

  “It is,” Hazard admitted. “All I actually remember is that he had something gold in his hand. I’m not relying on my memory. I’m relying on Taggart, or rather on his sixth sense for these things.”

  “Who’s Taggart?” Eve asked.

  “Taggart is . . . an associate of mine. I hate magic . . . for obvious reasons. But I knew if I was going to break the curse I would have to fight fire with fire. And since I don’t have any power of my own, I had to find someone willing to share his . . . for a price.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’s more than willing to share if the price is anything like what you offered me.” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. “And speaking of . . . you sure have a lot of walking-around money for someone cursed with bad luck.”

  “It’s old money.” He dropped his gaze and used one finger to trace the rim of the saucer beneath the cup of coffee he hadn’t touched. “I have . . . afflictions that aren’t readily visible or understood. It’s not an easy thing for me to talk about.”

  “You don’t have to,” she said, as he’d hoped she would.

  She had a caring heart. Everything he’d observed of her and everything he’d learned about her surreptitiously told him that. And if his back wasn’t to the wall, or if he were a better man, he wouldn’t stoop to using that against her. But he wasn’t a better man, and he was going to use her kindness, and her own distaste for magic, to get her to do what he needed her to do.

  “Tell me how Taggart figured out that it was the pendant you were looking for,” she said.

  “He has a wide range of contacts in the otherworld,” he explained, referring to the world of magic interwoven with this one. “And he has a talent for locating things that are impossible to find . . . that sixth sense I mentioned. It took a while, and there were a lot of dead ends, but he eventually got a strong sense that what we were looking for was in Providence. Once we were here, he zeroed in on the house on Sycamore Street. The fact that it was for sale was simply a lucky break “

  “So it wasn’t purely by chance that you bought the house.” There was a subtle note of accusation in her voice.

  “I never said it was chance. I said it had nothing to do with you, and that at the time I bought it I knew nothing about you. That’s the truth. And I said the location being well suited to magic was a deciding factor—also true.”

  She acknowledged that with a slight nod.

  “It was only after we arrived here that Taggart honed in on the auction,” he explained, “and as soon as I saw the photograph of the pendant in the preview catalogue, I knew he was right . . . that it was what Pavane had in his hand when he cursed me.”

  She looked at him with surprise. “The sorcerer’s name was Pavane?”

  “That’s right. Phineas Pavane.” He saw her chest lift with a sudden deep breath and sensed her excitement. “Do you recognize the name?”

  She nodded eagerly. “If my grandmother is right—and she usually is about these things—Phineas Pavane is the man responsible for our long-lost family talisman being long lost in the first place ... and for worse things. Not the same Phineas Pavane who cursed you,” she added and then rolled her eyes at herself. “Obviously.”

  “Obviously,” he murmured, captivated by the sudden guileless sparkle of her in a way he had no right to be.

  “This rural, horse-loving village you were talking about . . . was it by any chance in Ireland? A place called Gleng—”

  “Glengara,” he said at the same time she did. “Near the west coast. That’s the place.”

  “That’s where my family is from . . . originally, I mean. Grand was born there.”

  She tossed her hair back, making the bells on her ears dance against the pale skin he longed to touch. It was an effort to focus instead on what she was saying.

  “I don’t know if this is a coincidence,” she told him, “and if it’s not, I have no idea what it means, but if there was a Pavane involved, I’m sure he played dirty. You can use the pendant. And I don’t want any money, or papers drawn up. A handshake is good enough for me.”

  She offered her hand; he hesitated.

  “Do you trust me that much?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure how much I trust you,” she admitted. “But I’m willing to give it a try. We’ll keep it simple: I’ll let you use the pendant to break the curse, and you promise to return it to me afterwards, safe and sound. No exceptions. No excuses.”

  They shook on it. And even though the light was low, designed to hide flaws and soften what’s real, he saw Eve clearly for the woman she truly was. The woman he needed her to be.

  Caring. Trusting. Gullible.

  He really was a bastard.

  Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

  So sayeth the witches in Macbeth, and their words had been running through Eve’s head all day, as impossible to shake as the refrain of a popular and God-awful song you hear on your way to work and find yourself humming all day. They struck her as timely; she only hoped they weren’t a bad omen. Tonight was the night she was going to Hazard’s, talisman in hand, for what she’d come to think of as—for want of a catchier term—the Great Decursing.

  It had been two days since their dinner at Settimio’s. She’d offered to get together to do the deed as soon as possible, but Hazard had things to take care of first, and so they’d agreed on this evening. It was a good thing he hadn’t needed more time, because thinking about it was really interfering with her work. Flubbing lines, daydreaming during meetings and having to double- and triple-check appointment times was all very unlike her.

  She was accustomed to work being her consuming passion, the thing that drove and excited her; work was the first thing she thought of in the morning and the last thing at night, and it was unsettling to have something else kick it from first place to a very distant second. She told herself that her curiosity and anticipation were natural; after all, it wasn’t everyday she got to witness someone use a magical talisman to break a bad-luck curse. Whatever excitement she felt had less to do with Hazard the man than Hazard the victim.

  In fact, it might not even be excitement she felt; it could be . . . compassion. It could be wild, intense compassion waking her up in the middle of the night and making her pulse race, suddenly and at odd and sometimes inconvenient moments.

  There was no denying that compassion was at least part of her feelings toward Hazard. His story had touched her deeply, probably because she understood it like few others could. She had the misfortune of knowing firsthand what it was to get caught in the backwash of a power far greater than yourself, a boundless, unaccountable power willing and able to pluck you from the fabric of reality as you knew it, spin you around and toss you back into a world radically different from the one you knew, leaving you to find your way as best you could.

  Some would say they had both brought it on themselves by opening the door to the mysterious power of magic without knowing where it would lead. That was probably true . . . but with one major difference between them. She had been warned of the danger and had chosen to cast the Winter Rose Spell anyway. Hazard was never warned and had no way of knowing the potential consequences of his actions; he hadn’t even known magic was real, for pity’s sake. It was a stretch to think of the Hazard who’d bulldozed his way into her life as an innocent, but that’s what he’d once been.

  There was also another important difference between them. What she did, she did for herself; she’d cast the spell in hopes of seeing what love and happiness might be in her future. Hazard had been thinking of someone else’s future happiness. He had unselfishly put himself at risk for the sake of a stranger. Neither of them deserved what happened to them, but the balancing scales in Eve’s heart decreed that he deserved it less.

  For that reason alone she was willing to help him any way she could. It would be a bonus if she co
uld also even the score a little with the iniquitous Pavane, both the man who had cursed Hazard and the earlier one who had caused her own family so much pain and trouble.

  Phineas Pavane had stolen more than the talisman from them, he’d stolen possibilities. Generations of them. There was no way of knowing exactly how many, but Eve was convinced the number was staggering. He’d stolen the possibility of love and joy and contentment from so many women who shared her blood, and, maybe worse, he’d stolen the possibility of all the good they could have done with the power meant to be theirs and theirs alone.

  She understood bad luck because she’d seen her share of it, and she knew the return of the talisman brought the possibility that T’airna luck could change. She resisted thinking about it because the potential for disappointment was too great. But gradually those thoughts began slipping through cracks in the wall she’d put up, more frequently since her dinner with Hazard. She wondered if that was because he represented another new possibility . . . the possibility of a man she could be completely open and honest with. A man she could dare to love.

  Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think about it, she told herself. She wasn’t even sure Hazard was a man she could love. She was drawn to him in a way that confused her, but she really knew very little about him. The other night had filled in some of the blanks, and hopefully more of her questions would be answered tonight. She would also get to meet the mysterious Taggart, who would be in charge of the decursing. And she would find out if he was right about the pendant having the power to break the curse and set Hazard free. Maybe luck was about to change for both of them.

  Provided she didn’t miss the witching hour, she thought, noticing the time. She took off her glasses and began to pack up to go. The script she’d been working on, the one that should have taken no more than an hour to write but that was still unfinished after several, would have to wait until tomorrow.

  Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d. Harpier cries: ’tis time! ’tis time!

  Twelve

  “How many times are you going to watch that thing?” asked Taggart from somewhere behind him.

  Hazard heard him amble into the study a few minutes earlier, but he hadn’t turned then and he didn’t turn now. He had no intention of squandering his newly restored vision on Taggart’s homely self when he could be looking at Eve. Watching her image on a television screen was a poor substitute for the real thing, but it was better than nothing.

  He had no interest in current trends or trinkets unless they simplified his research or advanced his cause. The box known as a DVR was such a device. He’d originally mastered its system of buttons and menus so he could record information that might someday prove useful, but recently he’d discovered a much more pleasurable and instantly gratifying use for the thing; he recorded Eve’s news reports and replayed them. Over and over again, like an opium addict driven to feed his craving with increasing frequency until his need becomes the center of his existence, the fulcrum upon which everything else turns.

  Hazard had never allowed anything—or anyone—to become that all-important to him, and he’d long ago vowed he never would. As a child and then as a young man, he’d witnessed that kind of obsession in his mother. He’d been powerless to do anything about it, but he’d seen how lethal it could be. His mother hadn’t been an addict in the common sense of the word; her obsession had been the man who was her lover, and his father. Assuming you measured paternity by blood alone. Her love and her need for the man had been without limits or conditions. And in turn, the Earl of Shafton’s regard for his mother had been without the complication of either love or need. He’d looked on her as a pleasing commodity, like a fine cigar or a new cravat, to be enjoyed and used up and discarded. And that’s precisely what he did.

  Their association had ended badly, all the way around, and when it was done Hazard swore he would never allow himself to love so deeply or need so desperately. And he never had. Now, in spite of his resolve, Eve Lockhart threatened to become a sweet addiction.

  And he refused to let Taggart make him feel guilty for it.

  “I’m going to watch as many times as it pleases me,” he said in reply to Taggart’s question.

  “Humph,” Taggart responded, obviously annoyed. “I only asked because they’ll be giving the results of the races at Churchill Downs on that sports channel, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not,” Hazard countered.

  “And Starry Night, the black stallion brought over from Isle of Wight, ran today. I thought for sure you’d be interested in seeing how he did.”

  That was a lie. If Taggart actually cared about what Hazard wanted to see, he would go away and leave him to watch his clips of Eve in peace. Starry Night. The name did strike a chord. Because, he realized with sudden irritation, it was the name of the horse owned by a mage who specialized in equine trickery, a horse whose failure to cross the finish line anywhere near close to first had already cost Hazard a tidy sum to cover Taggart’s losses.

  Pressing the Pause button, he turned to eye the other man suspiciously. “Tell me you’re not placing wagers.”

  “I’m not placing wagers,” parroted Taggart, eyes wide and innocent. “Sheesh. Can’t a man try to do you a favor without accusations being made?”

  Hazard sighed. That was another lie, but not one he wanted to spend whatever time he had left before Eve arrived grousing about. He glanced at the clock on his desk.

  “She’s late,” observed Taggart.

  “She said she’d be here around six o’clock,” Hazard countered. “I’d hardly call 6:03 late, especially when you consider the traffic at this time of day.”

  Taggart strolled over and dropped into the chair beside his. “Maybe she’s changed her mind and won’t come at all.”

  “She’ll come.”

  “How can you be sure? You hardly know her now, do you?” Taggart was right. And wrong. It was true he hadn’t known Eve for more than a handful of days, but in that time he’d used his considerable skills to learn all he could about her. Thanks to her status as a local celebrity, there was plenty of factual information available. And if you were willing to dig deep enough—which he was—there were also comments and recollections from teachers and old friends buried in years of stories and interviews.

  He’d taken that jumble of facts and carefully pieced them together until he had a detailed picture of her life, and a good look at the woman she was.

  “I know she’ll be here because once, in the middle of a blizzard, she commandeered a snowplow and convinced the driver to take her across town to deliver an eightieth birthday cake to the man who used to run the newsstand outside her building because she promised him she would.

  “And,” he went on, “because once a year she dresses up as someone called Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle and reads a book by that same name to a classroom full of children.” He tried not to smile as he recalled what Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle looked like on the book jacket and wished he could see Eve dressed in a white ruffled apron and a flat straw hat with a black ribbon. “She does it simply because she did it once, with great success, and it has become a rite of passage for children in that grade. Something they look forward to all year.”

  Taggart’s face was scrunched with confusion. “So you think she’s coming here to read us a book about a pig?”

  “No, you dolt. She’s coming because she said she would come, because she promised to help, and she’s not the sort of woman to break a promise.”

  As if on cue the doorbell rang; Hazard stood but made it only a few steps toward the front door before Taggart stopped him.

  “You’re sure, Gabriel?” he asked. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

  Hazard scowled. “You need to ask?”

  “Aye, I do, because there’s no turning back, is there? If I’m right, if it works, it can’t be undone.”

  “I know that,” he said quietly.

  Taggart was on his feet now too, his expression ear
nest. “There’s no rush, is there? Maybe we should hold off a bit, until we can learn more about this ritual, the fine points of it, I mean. I’ve never performed it personally, after all, only heard about it . . . and not firsthand. It seems we ought to know . . . more.”

  It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation in recent days. Hazard understood Taggart’s concerns; he just didn’t have any more time to debate them.

  He reached out and put his hand firmly on Taggart’s shoulder. “Trust me; I’ve given this a great deal of thought. It’s what I want . . . now more than ever,” he added, thinking of Eve, and where his growing attraction to her could lead. “And the rush is to get it done while Eve is willing to let us use the talisman.”

  “I thought she wasn’t one to go back on her word,” Taggart retorted.

  “She’s not. Unless,” he added pointedly, “she should find out it was given under false pretense.”

  The doorbell sounded again, and Taggart trailed him down the hall to the front door, still grumbling.

  “False pretense is right. Seems to me that if you’re so sure you’re doing the right thing, you shouldn’t be afraid to say so.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Hazard shot back, losing patience. “We’ve been over this. She has no part in what I’m doing, and I don’t think it’s fair that she should feel in any way responsible for . . . whatever happens.”

  “Humph,” Taggart said.

  Hazard opened the door. And smiled.

  Today she was wearing a yellow blouse—the hue as pale as fresh-churned butter—with a black jacket and skirt. At first, he’d wished she didn’t wear so much black, but he decided he liked it because it made the bits of color she did wear appear all the more vivid. And because it allowed her own colors to shine through, the gleaming copper and cinnamon of her hair, and the pale ivory and peach of her soft skin.