Enchanted Again

by Robin D. Owens

  “I understand that, but—”

  “Never asked much from you, Rafe, but you need to fight for me on this front. Please.”

  Chapter 4

  RAFE LOCKED GLANCES with Conrad. Rafe didn’t know what to say, but time seemed to slow down and a chill touched his spine like the winter wind of mortality. Conrad was his best friend. Rafe had been hard on friends. Not even his brother wanted to be with him. Too bad, so sad.

  And while he stood, Conrad shot out the door, into the Tesla and was gone. The way he was driving, he’d better watch for cops.

  “Davail, you there?” That was shouted from his phone.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Keep an eye on Marta and Dougie. Conrad’s on his way.”

  Herrera said, “I’ll need another man or two here in Bakir Zagora.”

  “Money’s no object,” Rafe said.

  “Right. Later.” The P.I. hung up.

  When Rafe went back into the conference room, Amber had her arms crossed over her very fine breasts. Her expression was cool. “There are some things money can’t buy.”

  Rafe shut the door hard behind him. He should go after Conrad.

  But his friend had asked him to help him here. “Are we talking about ‘curse breaking’?”

  “That’s right,” she said. “No amount of money on the face of the earth—”

  Rafe waved. “Yeah, yeah.” He didn’t believe her. People always had a price. And he usually solved problems by throwing money at them. Money he’d inherited and which his brother invested very well, as he’d been told acidly the night before.

  He ran his hand through his hair. His scalp was sweaty and he hadn’t noticed. “What about genealogy?”

  “What about it?”

  “Money can buy a good trace of family trees. We’re very good clients, Ms. Sarga.” He rubbed his neck, squeezed his shoulder blades. “Look, can we discuss this somewhere else? The buzz from the lighting here is really giving me a headache.”

  Her brows rose. “Buzz from the lighting.”

  “That’s right. And I’ll need to get a taxi or rent a car, or buy one.”

  She sighed. “There’s a good coffeehouse around the corner, the Sensitive New Age Bean.”

  “That where you got the drinks?” He gestured to the carafes on the sideboard.

  “Yes.”

  “Sold,” he said.

  “You go ahead. I’ll meet you there. I need to tidy up here.”

  Nodding, he opened the door and walked out, leaving the tube with the family trees on the table.

  Amber moved to the credenza, and all three brownies were there before her. Hartha cleaned up and Pred claimed the cocoa carafe. She scowled at Tiro. “You had no right to answer as if you were me, asking what kind of curse it was. I won’t have that.”

  He sneered, shrugged. “Humans and their rights.” His upper lip lifted. “You can’t do anything to me.”

  “I can give all the chocolate pie I’m making to Hartha and Pred.”

  Pred snorted with laughter. Tiro growled and the younger, smaller brownieman disappeared.

  Amber walked over to the table and looked at the tube. Her palms tingled and wisps of pink-purple emanated from them as she touched it.

  “Tell me, Tiro, did any of my, uh, forebears ask you to help them?”

  His face darkened and looked like it became the consistency of rock. Amber stepped back. His big eyes turned down briefly as if sad, then he shrugged again. “They always thought they could fix curses. Every one of them. They all died young.”

  Like Amber’s mother and aunt had. They’d cut all emotional connections with her and sent her away to relatives when she was six, where she’d been cared for but never really loved. Looking back, she thought they had decided to do a major curse breaking and had failed. She didn’t know for sure, though.

  They hadn’t taught her about curses. She only had that one journal—obviously a middle volume of a set. She’d never thought to trace a bloodline back to witness the beginning of a curse. Usually she’d just felt the hideous shroud of the curse and broken it.

  “Was Conrad right about there being rules for curses? That a release or unbinding is built at the time of the original curse?”

  “What of it?” Tiro asked. “The curse lasts and the requirements for the unbinding gets lost and that’s the end of it.”

  Possibilities surged through Amber, enough to make her light-headed and lean against the wall. “But I am proficient in finding information in the past. Maybe this is another way…”

  “Occasionally there are witnesses to the curse or it’s recorded,” Hartha encouraged.

  “I have a smaller magical gift that might help,” Amber said.

  Tiro grunted. “You women are always hopeful. You always try. You always die.”

  Hartha finished inspecting the surface of the mahogany table. Somehow she’d stopped coffee from splashing on it from Conrad’s cup.

  “All right?” Amber asked, pushing away from the wall.

  “Yes.” Hartha lifted her chin with pride in her work. Her gaze scanned the room. “All is tidy.”

  “Thank you,” Amber said.

  Hartha nodded. “Your chocolate cake was very good.” The tips of her ears quivered. “And we will have chocolate pie with candied violets for tea this afternoon.”

  “Yes,” Amber said.

  Hartha vanished with the cake and Amber was left with Tiro. He stumped around the room, then cackled. “Buzz of the lighting,” he said, mocking Rafe Davail’s words.

  “Not very courteous of you,” Amber said. She picked up the tube. Magic ran from it to her hand, sank into her skin. She wished Jenni were here to ask about things. One last glance and she said, “We are all bound together for a while.” As she said that, she knew it was the truth. She didn’t know how or why, but they were bound together. “Rafe Davail and me and you.”

  “You’ll die soon.”

  “Maybe I will.” She didn’t want to. There must be ways to mitigate the consequences of curse breaking; she should be able to find them. She was sure her ancestors didn’t have three brownies to help them. She opened her hands and flicked her fingers at him. “I thank you for moving my office, but I release you. Go back where you came from, I sure don’t need you in my life.”

  “I can’t.” Tiro didn’t roar loudly, but affected the air pressure so that her ears popped. He hopped onto the table so they were eye-to-eye. “The great elf Cumulustre put a binding on me to serve your line until there were no more of you stupid curse-breaking women.” He stomped back and forth on the conference table, and Amber swore she could hear wood splintering, but the top was smooth and polished, not even a trace of small brownie footprints.

  Magic.

  “I thought you were all gone. All dead. The main line and all its branches.”

  “So you have to live with me, huh?” Amber asked. “Keep an eye on me? Is that all? Can’t you help me? I can see you. I can see the other brownies. Jenni is a djinn. I could have a lot of help.”

  “Not enough, not ever enough.”

  Amber shrugged a shoulder. “Well, wherever you’ve been, and however you’ve spent your time since you were last with humans, it sure has made you grumpy. Not even regular infusions of chocolate would sweeten you.” She turned and walked from the room, leaving the door open.

  “I was very happy by myself in my cottage!” he shouted.

  She didn’t look back. By the time she crossed the foyer to the outer door, waving to the receptionist, Tiro was gone and the conference room was empty.

  The wind had come up and whipped her hair around her and she’d wished she’d buttoned up her raincoat. But the Sensitive New Age Bean was only around the block, so she wouldn’t be in the spring cold for long. She tucked the long tube under her arm and hurried. As she did so, she noticed the…flatness…of the scent of the air, and when the wind kissed her lips, the flavor wasn’t tasty. And she knew what was missing. The fragrance and savor of magic.
<
br />   She pushed the door open to the coffee shop. Instead of magic there was the rich smell of espresso, and the slight sweetness of baked goods.

  The place was crowded as usual. Amber was not the only one doing business at the Bean. People worked on laptops, spoke quietly on cells, spread papers or textbooks on the tables. There were a few meetings, too. A local Realtor, a financial planner, one of the architects from the firm on the corner—all were deep in discussion with one or more clients.

  Rafe Davail had chosen a small table for two in the back room. The round table was painted with fluffy Chinese clouds with a dragon peeking out, chasing a shiny gray pearl. Rafe lounged in a low-backed chair, his arm along the top rung, his legs showing long muscles in his faded jeans, his leather jacket open. She was sure it was outrageously expensive. She’d never thought a blond could look darkly brooding, but he managed.

  As she passed the threshold of the front room to the back, he glanced up, then stood. He gestured to two cups in front of him. “Seemed like a day for hot chocolate.”

  Tiro perched on the high shelf of the back bookcase, and had his gaze fixed on the drinks as if he hadn’t tasted the treat in millennia. Was chocolate addicting to brownies? She’d better ask.

  Meanwhile, Rafe had slipped the large tube from her grasp and set it on the table, then touched her shoulders and she realized he was going to take her coat. She hadn’t expected such manners from him, then recalled he’d been brought up in wealth and figured he’d had etiquette drummed into him. The feel of more than a curse zinged through her. Magic, power, something. And desire. That was bad.

  He folded her coat over her chair, waited until she was seated and sat. Then he pushed the mug of cocoa to her, and got his brood back on.

  “Just so you know, I don’t want to be doing this.”

  “I never would have guessed,” she said.

  One side of his mouth lifted. “Pretty evident, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head. “I thought my headache would get better here. Doesn’t seem to be happening.”

  “Just a minute,” she said. He didn’t look up as she stood.

  She sauntered back to the bookcase. “What are you doing here, and why are you bothering Mr. Davail?”

  “I am bothering no one. He can feel magic, but he doesn’t believe, so he can’t see me. Can be irritating.”

  “I’m sure you can tamp down your magic and be a little less intrusive and odd. It will be so much easier to talk to him if you aren’t bothering him.”

  “You’re the one who’s talking to a bookcase,” Tiro said.

  Amber gritted her teeth, glanced over her shoulder and saw Rafe staring at her. Had he heard her? The espresso machine had been going and she’d kept her voice down. Still…

  Amber glared up at Tiro. “I’m only a duty to you. Go sulk in your room and leave us be.”

  “He is attracted to you.”

  “I’m an attractive woman.”

  “And he is handsome for a human, this I know.” Tiro began shaking his head slowly.

  “I don’t want to hear anything more about how I’ll die. Just go.”

  “I will keep my magic close to me.” Tiro said. “Not let it spread through the room.” He crossed his arms. It seemed his only concession. Amber wondered if it were a good or bad sign that he was interested in Rafe Davail. But in the next few seconds, she did feel a thinning of magic in the atmosphere. Well, she had a business to run. She spun on her heel, quickly enough to see that Rafe’s gaze had been aimed at her butt.

  Too bad he had a death curse, she really would have liked to spend some time with him. She plucked down one of the notebooks with blank paper that was kept for the patrons and walked back to the table, keeping her smile easy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any supplies with me.” She reached into her purse and a pen slipped into her fingers. The way her hand felt, that was another minor magic. Maybe hanging around the brownies was increasing that, too. She hoped so.

  She opened the tube and pulled out rolled charts. One was older, the other smelled like it had been copied at a shop with a blueprint machine that morning. She glanced at that one and saw the Davail line. Once again several entries jumped out at her…all men who had died before they were thirty-three. She glanced at Rafe as she set it aside—he was in the last months of his thirty-second year.

  Then she unrolled the Cymbler family tree. The last entry, “Douglas Dimir Tyne-Cymbler,” was printed in ballpoint ink. No doubt Conrad’s addition. She let that end of the paper curl up as she scrolled to the beginning of the large sheet and the thirteenth century. She couldn’t tell just by looking whether Conrad’s curse had been in effect then. Surely if it had happened later, there would have been documentation.

  “Do you know anything about the Cymbler curse?” she asked absently.

  There was a creak as Rafe tilted his chair back on two legs. His gaze met hers over his cup as he sipped. “I vaguely recall Conrad’s ramblings after he met his father. We were in college…roommates. You and Conrad. Puzzle solvers.” Rafe shrugged, this time a regular-type shrug. “I’m more into action.”

  “Sports.” She recalled some of the pics online she’d seen, he wasn’t sitting in one of them.

  “That’s right.”

  Amber kept her hands flat on the roll. “Mr. Davail, just what do you expect of me?”

  His chair came down with a clunk. “I expect you to research Conrad’s family tree. Check out whether there really is some sort of…bad luck.”

  “Does he have any histories, stories, notes?” Amber asked.

  “Not that I know of. He would have brought them to you if he had them.”

  “How far back do you want me to go?”

  Rafe waved a hand. “As far back as it takes, as long as it takes.” He leaned forward, blue gaze steady. “Charge your usual rates and keep track of your time and expenses.”

  Anger surged through her. “You don’t seem to get it, Mr. Davail. I didn’t contact Mr. Tyne-Cymbler or you. I did not come to your home and ask for your help. I have absolutely no intention of taking monetary advantage of Mr. Tyne-Cymbler in the state he’s in.” She drew in a breath, checked around, but no one was paying much attention to them. Keeping her voice low, she continued. “I’m not promising to break his curse. I’m contracting to do genealogy for him. That’s all.”

  “He said something about special stories.”

  Amber glanced away. How could she have known that those little bits of magic she did during her historical work would lead to such problems? “Now and then I can…find certain family moments or two that my clients are unaware of. I include them in my reports.”

  “Psychic?” Rafe asked, his voice laden with disbelief.

  She blinked but didn’t meet his gaze, shrugged herself. “Extrapolation.” Now she looked him in the eyes. “But there’s usually documentation for the stories.” She thought that’s how her minor magic functioned, only showing what was recorded somewhere. She just had to find it.

  Rafe reached into his jacket pocket. “Do you need a retainer?”

  “No.”

  “I want you to work on this as hard as you can.”

  “I do have other clients.”

  He nodded. “All right, I agree.”

  “What?”

  “Bump up your price until you can work only for us.”

  “No. I have other clients.”

  “Finish ’em up first, then give us all your time.”

  She stared at him. “You don’t believe in curses.”

  “Of course not.”

  She glanced up to Tiro. He whistled and Rafe flinched. Rafe was magic whether he knew it or not, whether he believed or not. “But somewhere inside you, you don’t think that Conrad will find his wife and child, do you? That’s why you’re authorizing such a push on my part.”

  “Just do it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And let’s hope one of your stories you find during your little psy
chic episodes is the event that Conrad wants to hear about.”

  “You are a very irritating person,” she said. “Very arrogant.”

  “Deal?” He put out his hand, palm up. Amber had studied palmistry briefly. She couldn’t help but notice that his life line had a dark bar and a break when he was a relatively young man. The line faded after that.

  Her heart gave a hard thump. But there was a square near, indicating protection. And another curved line nearly parallel. Again, showing he could have help. That meant his life could go on.

  “Deal?” he repeated, impatiently.

  Chapter 5

  SHE PUT HER hand in his and he turned his hand over and clasped her fingers. More intimate than a handshake. Again she felt the curse, the magic, the sizzle of desire.

  His body heat seemed enormous, as if he were living life fast and hard. He withdrew and finished his hot chocolate, nodded to her own. “That’s getting cold.”

  She sat and drank it, felt the cool melting of whipped cream on her upper lip and sucked it off. Wonderful. “What can you tell me about Mr. Tyne-Cymbler?”

  “Call him Conrad, and call me Rafe.”

  Now his posture was more casual, his long legs stretched out. He stared into the bottom of a cup that had to be near empty, then looked up. “He’s my best friend. He has been since we met freshman year in college. He’s loyal.” Rafe jerked a shoulder. “He’s solid, will keep his word. He loves Marta and Dougie and he was too good for her. She was a schemer from the beginning.”

  Amber recalled the feeling of darkness that had made her uneasy when she looked at Marta Dimir’s name. She shook her head slightly.

  “What?” asked Rafe.

  “I looked you two up on the Net.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “And on the main database I use.” But not all the databases. There were others, more obscure. If there were information on Conrad and his family curse, she’d find it. “The Tyne family tree is online.”

  Rafe grunted. “Bunch of tight asses.”

  “But the Cymbler family tree isn’t.”

  He didn’t look at her, but said, “You were going to make a comment about Marta?”