by Berinn Rae
Pam B. Morris
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Pamela B. Morris
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5166-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5166-6
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5146-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5146-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art ©bigstock (ranch) / dilsiz
To Brett, Kate, and Jackson for keeping the ground solid under me,
and Rachel for her unshakable belief.
Acknowledgments
A heartfelt thank you to my acquisitions editor, Jennifer Lawler, and everyone at Crimson Romance and F&W Media for making my lifelong dream come true. An extraordinary thank you to my editor, Jessica Verdi, for her patience, professionalism, and gifting me with the realization that I needed an editor as much as I longed for a publisher.
Loving thanks to The Midnight Writers: Laura, Lolly, Robin, Martina, and Rachel. Special appreciation and love to Mary, Jackie, Wendy, Linda, Beverly, Pattee, Walker, Star, Jean, Nancy, Barbara, Cherry, my sister Holly, and my daughter Kate for the many years of reading my stuff and still saying “don’t give up.”
Thank you to the Montana Romance Writers Chapter of RWA. Finally and most especially, love and thanks to Rionna Morgan, Angela Briedenbach, Clare Wood, Danica Winters, and Casey Dawes, my writing sisters and the backbone in my spaghetti spine.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Chapter One
“Lily, you are pathologically incapable of getting a man.” Ellen Reid took a long, appreciative sip of the double shot cappuccino.
Slouched in a chair in front of her boss’s giant teak desk, Lily Barnett rolled her eyes.
Ellen glanced at her wall calendar with a digi-pic of New Chicago’s techno glitz high-rises taken at night. It read: Thursday, October 14th, 2039. An appointment for Lily was penciled in.
“Don’t get me wrong, Lil, you’re a brilliant artist,” Ellen said. “You can paint with the realism of a John Singer Sargent, then like magic switch to the drama of a Caravaggio. But face it, you’d rather watch leaves fall than ogle a gorgeous man.”
“Whatever spin works for ya, boss.” Lily slouched deeper. She’d heard her employer’s affectionate litany so many times, the praise as well as the critique slid off her like hot wax from a candle. Not that she didn’t appreciate Ellen’s professional faith. Or accept the pathetic truth of her shortcomings.
Lily could get a date, sure. She’d agree to meet an interesting guy for drinks, even recall the time and place. But on her way to the meeting she’d get distracted by the light tickling a corner street musician’s saxophone or the expressions of eager children playing ha’penny on the sidewalk. Out came her sketchbook, dragged from the ragged satchel she carried everywhere, and she would start drawing. And the guy waiting for drinks with her? He’d be forgotten before she even put pencil to paper.
Ellen eyed Lily over the top of her cup and seemed to come to a decision. Reaching into a drawer she pulled out a message slip and passed it across the desk.
“What is this?” Lily leaned forward to look but refused to take the paper.
“I made you an appointment at a service. Here are directions and the time.”
She sent Ellen a withering glance and stood to gather her portfolio and satchel.
“Come on, Lil, what have you got to lose?” Ellen pleaded. “Carter and Bell’s Dating Service is a fun, people-person place designed for non-people persons like yourself. And who knows, they may match you up with a guy who’d rather rake leaves than ogle a gorgeous girl!”
To avoid further argument, Lily snatched the note and started out the door.
“And, Lily, you have a sitting with Pete Bleeker in,” Ellen checked her watch, “twenty-three minutes.”
“You think I could forget my worst nightmare?” Lily tossed over her shoulder as she headed down the hall to her studio. Pete Bleeker, portly and arrogant, an unbearable bore. Or boar, she snickered, with his definite porcine features. Oops, she must act professional, she reminded herself, and slammed her portfolio down on a work table.
Not that she didn’t love working at Ellen Reid’s renowned portrait studio, Faces In Time. She’d never had a boss so caring or a job in such a creative environment where people actually enjoyed coming to work.
Faces In Time employed artists and photographers who offered all manner of portraits from typical to avant-garde, in any setting, with individuals, couples, families, and groups fully clothed … or otherwise. Lily specialized in classic studio oils, often with clients dressed in period costumes or posing in dramatic stage settings of their choosing. Large “period portraits” done in the nineteenth-century style of Sargent and Mancini were the current rage with New Chicago’s wealthy upper set. Lily was delighted with the steady work, and as a bonus she got Ellen’s sisterly advice on all matters of life, love and general practicality.
• • •
Lily survived the two hours of sketching Pete Bleeker’s sour face, his screaming anger, her fear that she would lose her temper and tell the bastard how big his ass really was and how well his fat head would fit up it. Somehow she held her tongue. When pudgy Pete finally stormed away, Lily tried to refocus and paint. But the portrait wouldn’t mesh, and in the end she raced out of work, unwilling to face her boss.
Because she adored Ellen and tried to please her when possible, Lily walked to Carter and Bell’s Dating Service that afternoon. The sidewalks swarmed with people pushy to get home, jostling crowds catching electric trolleys or the underground. Traffic sounds surged and eased like cresting waves on Lake Michigan. Lily looked up at the New Chicago skyline, so different now with every skyscraper and rooftop sprouting a forest of benevolent wind generators.
After the riots in 2032, the rebuilding of the city meant hundreds of new high-rise condos, corporate centers, and mega-malls sprawling like a jungle gym up into the sky instead of out across the land. The suburbs of the twentieth century were gone now, housing developments replaced by thousand-acre farms raising food and bio-fuel crops.
Lily’s stomach fluttered with nerves as she tried to think positively about her upcoming “date” with destiny. Arriving at the address of Carter and Bell’s, she stumbled to a stop. A heavy dread settled at the base of her spine. The service was housed in a very modern, very beautiful three-story stone building with a stunning rock archway. Elegant lettering etched into the window promised a clientele made of New Chicago’s sophisticated and Nuevo wealthy. Lily could imagine Ellen breezing into this place
, confident, swinging the world by the tail. But not herself, not in a million years …
Through the passing crowd she could see her reflection in the window, a short, attractive enough girl with thick hair impossibly tangled by the wind. A defeated sigh slumped her shoulders. Lily had no illusions about her looks; she was a portrait painter, for pity’s sake. Her physical points of interest were few but striking: lovely blue eyes too large for her face and a full mouth. But unmanageable curls the color of straw, a pixie chin, and a height just topping five feet gave people the impression she was childlike and therefore negligible.
Her life did lack certain adult essentials. Hot, groping sex with beautiful men for one. And love … deep, satisfying, all-absorbing love. But could a woman like her — stockings saggy at the knees, cuffs smeared with paint, and carrying a stained canvas bag — waltz into this den of opulence and create a competent, compelling digi-interview of herself for prospective lovers to pick over? The very idea brought on the gag reflex.
Lily turned away from Carter and Bell’s, closed her eyes, and thought back over the long day, hearing the raging voice of Pete Bleeker screaming inside her head that she couldn’t paint a portrait by number! Heard, too, the woman in Spencer’s Gallery who’d returned one of Lily’s paintings. The woman’s rant had gone on and on about Lily’s insane color choices, how the painting was “highly agitating” and “would never fit a typical person’s décor.”
She felt the airy whoosh of e-cars passing by inches from where she teetered on the curb. Just breathe, she told herself. She’d survived worse days growing up a misfit on the Ohio farm. She’d heard worse criticisms, and in stronger language, from college professors. Just breathe! But standing solitary on the busy sidewalk, Lily knew she hadn’t the chutzpah to stroll into a posh partnering palace looking for true love, and suddenly wished not for an attractive, exciting man, but a crack in the sidewalk to crawl into.
When she turned around and opened her eyes, she saw a sign swinging in the breeze above her that read, “Madame Bagasha’s Magicke Shoppe.” The voices of Pete Bleeker and Mrs. Wind-Up-Her-Ass roaring inside her head began to warp into the sound of voices singing with symphonic rapture. The tightness in her throat eased. She took a hesitant step closer and realized the chimes hanging above the door to the nondescript shop were calling to her.
The window display refracted rainbows across the sidewalk from the dozens of crystals scattered amongst the candles, figurines, and spread of tarot cards. Lily pressed a hand to the glass, felt heat beneath her palm, and a halo of light shot out around her fingers. A burst of laughter broke loose in her chest.
Of course she knew who Madame Bagasha was. Who hadn’t seen the psychic on late night digi-tube, dressed in a lush Romany costume with her head swathed in scarves, her wrists aglitter with gypsy spangles while she barked out a nine hundred phone number?
“Lost a loved one you wish to communicate with? Need stock tips? Want to know who thinks you’re scorching hot at the office? Just call this number … ”
• • •
That charlatan image vanished the moment Lily stepped inside the shop. Discreet and unobtrusive from the outside, Madame Bagasha’s Magicke Shoppe seemed three times larger inside. Bright prisms floated above her head, warm light fell like rain through pyramid skylights. Luminous motes of dust hung expectant in the air … and sang to her! Lily didn’t question how this was possible as they clustered in her hair, on her face and clothes until she glittered with their exuberant welcome. She felt a giddy warmth rush her limbs, her heart swelled to settle more firmly in her chest. In that moment Lily knew she was exactly where she belonged at precisely the right time.
All around her, rocks on shelves pulsed, orbs glowed, and a stuffed peacock’s marble eyes seemed to follow her every move. Exotic scents drifted through the air; lavender, cloves, a tangy ginger soap bubbling somewhere vaguely reminded her of Daniel, the guy who lived next door to her. The room, organic and numinous, filled her head with strange images while shivery sensations played across her skin.
The shop was a place out of time where Mystical Vintage met New Age Wave. Every cabinet was crammed full with stone goblets, amulets, jars of powders, gemstones glinting in all sizes and colors. As she wandered the room, Lily fought a compulsive desire to touch everything. An ancient jukebox played haunting Celtic music in the background, and Lily began to feel the entire ugly day bleed away.
She jumped at the sound of a voice coming from behind a glass-fronted counter filled with jewelry and … wands, Lily decided, for the carved pieces of wood could be nothing else in a shop of magic. A young woman stood up.
“You must be Lily.” The girl’s eyes were a smiling, honey gold. She wore a peasant blouse and short skirt. Nut brown hair hung to her waist in a thick braid laced with ribbons. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
At Lily’s astonished look, the girl laughed. “My cousin Sarah works at Carter and Bell’s. She called asking if I’d seen anyone wandering around. But you don’t look lost to me. My name is Nila. And welcome to Madame Bagasha’s Magicke Shoppe.”
“Magic as in pulling a rabbit out a hat?” Lily’s voice sounded her skepticism.
“No.” Nila grinned. “Magic as in turning the hat into a rabbit!”
The girl plucked a pair of hexagonal dice marked with hieroglyphs out of a glass bowl and casually tossed them across the counter top. “They had to cancel your appointment next door, but not to worry. The dice tell me you won’t find what you’re looking for at Carter and Bell’s Dating Service.”
Lily looked askance at her and Nila said, “I worked a spell.”
“A spell? How?”
“Using numerology and a few conjuring words.”
“So you can do magic?”
“Yes. As can most people, including you. Your magic is in your art.”
Lily’s mouth dropped open. “Don’t tell me you’ve seen my paintings … ?”
“No, but I’ve seen you, here in the prisms over the last few days. Ephemeral projections. I truly have been expecting you. It shocks people to know that the universe is teeming with mystical forces. More accessible now since the magnetic pole switched, of course. Everything and everyone possesses magic of one sort or another; a particular attribute, a special skill, an extra sensitivity. Like an intuitive extension of who and what you are.”
“I think I know what you mean.” Excitement edged Lily’s voice. “When I’m painting I feel this kind of unconditional giving of core energy to my work.”
“Exactly.” Nila reached out her hand and without hesitation, Lily took it. A spark of magenta flared when they touched.
“See?” The girl said. “The magic in your hand just greeted the magic in mine. Most people don’t believe in mystic power so they never recognize or acknowledge it. Those people don’t find Madame’s shop.” She dropped the hexagonal dice in Lily’s hand. “Your turn. All you have to do is unzip your heart, focus your energy, and throw.”
Lily closed her eyes, felt the room’s effervescent light stir like fingers in her hair, saw in her mind’s eye every object emitting a color uniquely its own … and tossed the dice. The overhead lights flickered.
“Wow.” Nila stepped back. “You have some power, girl! I felt it coalesce and then shoot into the dice.” She bent to read the symbols. “They say you’re on the rise professionally. That you’re lonely, afraid you’ll never know real love. And you want the perfect mate. Well,” the girl winked, “here at Madame’s all you have to do is ask.”
“I thought all I had to do was try a few dozen men on like sweaters and hope one fits,” Lily said.
Nila laughed again and Lily heard the voices in the air giggle along with her. “The dice indicate you are surrounded by love, Lily. Every day. From friends who are more family than your own flesh. And yes, you do deserve the very best of love from a wonderful guy. So if you can spare thirteen dollars, I’ll get to work.”
“Thirteen?” Lily’s face fell but she found
herself digging in the satchel for her purse.
“Thirteen gets a bad rap but it’s actually a very auspicious number. Signifies resurrection and rebirth. Are you ready to be reborn?” Nila thrust her hands into the air, flinging her fingers wide. Lily felt, more than saw, an orangeish light spring from the girl’s fingertips and watched, awe-struck, as jars lifted off shelves around the shop to drift through the air towards where the two women stood. Nila pulled a mid-sized, fat-bellied pot from a shelf behind her and placed it on the counter.
She flashed a sheepish grin at Lily. “Cliché, I know, but potions must be mixed in a cast-iron cauldron. And I’m showing off, of course.”
From the jars Nila measured out bits of one preserved something after another, bending to sniff each before dribbling it into the cauldron. Adding a fair amount of what looked to Lily like red wine, the girl murmured a chant as the concoction began swirling as if stirred by an invisible wind.
“One alone, heart is young, spirit sprung, soul unstrung.
Two conjoined, blessed in kind, souls entwined, knot and bind.”
At Lily’s dubious look, Nila smiled. “Don’t worry, I am a trained witch. A bona-fide, certified, card-carrying member of the New Chicago Cohort.”
“New Chicago Cohort?” Lily was beyond amazed. She felt a combination of bewilderment, disbelief, hope, and more than a little fear. “And are you making what I think you’re making?”
Sudden laughter bubbled up at the absurd miracle of this place, at how comfortable she felt standing here watching a seemingly regular girl stir a love potion without lifting a finger!
Nila poured the mixture from the cauldron into a crystal goblet and hesitated before handing it over. “This isn’t your run-of the mill, ‘vanilla’ Love Potion Number Nine, Lily. Best be careful what you wish for.”
