Enchanted Again

by Robin D. Owens

  None of the terms were familiar in the slightest from the few months he’d played a fantasy card game as a kid.

  Instead of the Red Dragonfly Knight or whatever Pavan had made him, Rafe created a tough-looking dude, a Golden Hornet Knight.

  He died three times within a half hour. The game didn’t actually call it “dying,” but “defeated.” He damn well knew what it meant when he was unmoving and facedown eating dirt with ghoolies partying on his limp form. Then he’d push a key and be whisked to a safe place—the plush “Fairy Dome.” There were a couple of other high-level players talking about the fun leprechaun mission who ignored Rafe, fine with him.

  He hated the leprechaun. But not as much as he hated the leprechaun’s evil twin.

  Rafe manifested nothing, and dragged up to bed more frustrated than when he’d gotten out of it. His tablet remained dark as he slipped into the sheets, but when he closed his eyes, he saw hideous monster faces coming close, ready to clobber him. The images still beat the countdown to his birthday…and the last second to his death.

  He woke late again—after nine—and felt like he’d been up all night. His eyes hurt from the strain of looking at the computer in the dark, and his shoulders and back and mouse-holding wrist hurt from hunching over the damn piece of electronics. This was no way to treat his body. He should be up in the mountains skiing or snowboarding. Being active. Which reminded him that if he faced this Bilachoe, he’d be fighting with a dagger.

  He had some self-defense and karate training. He’d preferred less hand-to-hand competitive stuff. People out to kill him was different than pitting himself against the elements. Glancing at his phone, he saw that Conrad had called. A twinge went through Rafe. He’d been concentrating more on himself—and having Amber focus on his curse, rather than Conrad’s. Rafe glanced at the clock, it would be something like six to eight hours later, depending on where his friend was. Late afternoon. He swiped his thumb across the number.

  “Tyne-Cymbler,” Conrad said. He didn’t sound good.

  “Anything I can do?” Rafe asked.

  “No. We see Marta, then we don’t. You already helped, a lot, when you told me she might be controlled by someone else. I think that’s the case.”

  Of course Conrad would prefer that.

  “Good, that’s good.” It wasn’t, but that’s what Conrad wanted to hear and all Rafe could give him at this time. He hoped to hell Conrad didn’t want him to come to Eastern Europe. Rafe needed to stay here.

  “You got an update on the curse breaker?” Conrad asked.

  “She knows her stuff,” Rafe said. “She’s, uh, looking into the past when your curse was.”

  Conrad’s response was a small, relieved sigh and Rafe felt even more guilty. But he wasn’t about to tell Conrad that he’d seen their ancestors in a Chicago speakeasy. Conrad wouldn’t believe Rafe’s turnaround anyway.

  “Wanted to ask if you know any good fencers in Denver,” Rafe asked.

  Conrad snorted, and didn’t mistake Rafe’s question. “Yeah, there’s the Denver Fencing Lyceum and a couple of clubs.”

  “Lyceum,” Rafe muttered, unsure if he knew how to spell the word.

  “That’s right. Good people. We’ve got a local Olympic champion in sabre.”

  Rafe hesitated, then asked, “Have you seen Dougie?”

  There was a long pause. “No. Only Marta. I think she needs help.” Rafe had never felt the distance between himself and his friend more—emotionally, the man loved the woman desperately; physically, Conrad was across the world; mentally, Rafe still didn’t believe that Marta was telling the truth, or good enough for Conrad.

  After another pause, Conrad asked, “How’re you getting along with the curse breaker?”

  Well, Rafe wasn’t going to say he was living with Amber. He considered talking about brownies and magic, then decided against it. What came out of his mouth was, “You ever play Fairies and Dragons?”

  “Sure.”

  Why had Rafe needed to ask?

  Conrad said, “Thing you gotta remember about that game is that strategy pays. Figure out your moves in advance, choose your setting and your battles. Running and bashing doesn’t pan out.”

  Rafe could have told him that.

  Once again Conrad hesitated, but the man could read Rafe better than Rafe read him. “You don’t like virtual action, but if you’re going to play the game and don’t want to lay out the monthly fee because you think it’s stupid, my call-name is Tyrex2020, and my password is the first three digits of my social and the middle name of my son.” There was a shout in the distance.

  “Gotta go. Oh, and try the Purple Dragonfly Knight, I think he’d suit you. Let me know what the curse breaker says. Later.”

  Before Rafe could respond, Conrad had cut their call.

  Rafe called the Denver Fencing Lyceum and made an appointment for private coaching. The first time available was that afternoon and he tried not to think of the figures on his computer counting down.

  He showered, scrubbing. Yeah, the body felt like he was getting out of shape. He needed action, and better that it be fencing, he guessed. Energetic sex would be good, too. As he thought of Amber rolling around with him, his body agreed.

  He also had to ask Amber about those trips to the past of hers and whether she thought she’d find anything hopeful for Conrad.

  It added insult to Rafe’s dragging steps down the staircase to hear the joyful chimes and bells of a character achieving the next level in Fairies and Dragons. He’d made it to level three.

  And why would Amber be playing this early? She had work. Two cases, at least. Had he actually hired her? He wasn’t sure.

  The minute he walked into the room, she said with a gleam in her eyes, “I see you played the game last night. Fun, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, I guess you fell down into Pretard’s Pit.”

  He had. Four times. “How’d you know?”

  “Everyone new does.” Her smile wasn’t as smirky as before, but he still didn’t like it.

  “Is that like ‘everyone gets a speeding ticket on the elevated portion of Speer Boulevard.’”

  Her spine snapped straight and her eyes cooled. “No, only unobservant people in a hurry get tickets there.”

  He smelled food, so he wandered out of the room with the desk and entered the kitchen and saw a warming dish and lifted the lid. It was an omelet with good stuff spilling out of it—bacon, cheese, mushrooms, green peppers. “Hartha make this?”

  “I did,” Amber said.

  “Thanks, looks great.” He slid it onto the plate waiting next to it and took that and silverware to the dining room.

  Amber joined him with a cup of coffee. She gazed at him with serious eyes. “I have some information on Bilachoe for you. As you know, the ‘release’ of the curse is to kill him.” She swallowed. Rafe figured she wasn’t used to speaking of killing things. Too damn soft. For that matter, he wasn’t accustomed to thinking about killing things, either. Though if it came down to some evil fiery demon or himself, he’d give the action his best shot. Meantime, he ate the omelet. It was as good as it had looked.

  “I haven’t gotten far enough back on your bloodline to find where the curse started. Your chart starts at 1712 and the elf said the curse was about 520 years before that. I’m continuing to trace back. I still think Bilachoe must have a weakness. A detriment due to the curse.”

  Rafe sorted out what he wanted to say—Amber’s take versus Pavan’s. “You think that casting a bad curse like that must affect the person in some way.”

  Her chin lifted. “An evil curse should cost the curse maker, yes.”

  “Because the universe is fair and good and evil should be balanced?” He tried to keep his voice even, but she glared at him.

  “That’s right.”

  “Entropy…and crap…happens,” Rafe pointed out.

  Automatic logging off of Fairies and Dragons and defeat of character in one minute, said the comp
uter in the other room.

  Amber stood. “I need to get that. My character, Sylvant, isn’t in a safe place to log off.”

  “This isn’t a game,” Rafe said.

  “You think I don’t know that! Why the hell would I be playing such a squishy character if I had the choice? But Pavan made that character for me and if I have to play it for real, I’d better know her strengths and weaknesses.”

  “Squishy?” Rafe asked.

  “Easily killed…ah, defeated.”

  “I could die in this real life.” He’d only finished three-quarters of the omelet but his appetite had gone.

  “Rafe, so could I.”

  Chapter 14

  “NO, YOUR LIFE can’t be on the line.” Couldn’t be true. He stood and followed her.

  “Don’t be more of a jerk than you are. You think Bilachoe and his minions wouldn’t take out someone who could remove that curse from you at any time?”

  He stopped. “You could do that?” His heart thumped so hard he didn’t hear her character’s footsteps as she ran or the opening door of a tavern. Or the tinkling music of the game ending. Noted absently that Sylvant, the Silver Fairy Webspinner, was level nine.

  But Amber wasn’t the one who answered. Tiro the brownie was there by the table, glowering at her, before he turned his angry stare on Rafe.

  “Magic costs, human,” Tiro snapped, then looked at Rafe, snorted. “Entropy. What about ‘every action has an equal and opposite reaction.’ How much do you think it would cost Amber to break that death curse of yours?”

  “I don’t know,” Rafe said blankly.

  “You aren’t going to tell him?” Tiro demanded of Amber.

  She punched the off button on her computer, shut the lid. She grimaced. “I’d probably die.”

  The hope that had leaped within him died, followed by a chaser of guilt that he’d wanted someone else to fix his problems. He’d been on his own with this damn curse his whole life, carried the burden within him. No need to think of an option that didn’t appear to be available. “Sorry,” he said.

  She dragged in a breath and her breasts lifted and distracted him. She did have lovely breasts. He liked the looks of her legs in her old jeans, too. “I have some ideas.”

  “Seeing the past.”

  She nodded. “Eight hundred and twenty years ago was the Third Crusade. I don’t usually go that far back in my visions, but I should be able to do that if I prepare.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She raised a brow. “Is believing in my visions more or less difficult than believing Pavan’s game is real?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “All right.”

  The television came on in the living room. Loud. “…and in developing news, the fire engulfing several Cherry Creek homes is under control…”

  “What!” she said at the same time Rafe did.

  They hurried into the room and stood looking at the way-too-small screen. Must have been only twenty inches. How did the woman live like that? And that was a distraction from the sick feeling of looking at one side of Conrad’s charred house.

  “…freak lightning in the storm that rolled in last night and this morning…” said a serious-faced newswoman.

  Rafe winced. His death curse in action, no doubt. He thought it stuck to him, but maybe it drew bad stuff to wherever he was. But Mystic Circle was protected.

  Conrad hadn’t known, and Rafe didn’t want to be the one to tell him. His cell rang and he pulled it from his jeans pocket. It was Conrad.

  “Sorry,” Rafe said.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Just heard, got the TV on now. Will snap a shot. Though pics might be all over the Net shortly.” Rafe angled his phone at the TV, waited for another view of Conrad’s home, shot and sent.

  Some seconds later, Conrad said, “Marta and Dougie’s rooms. Wonder what she might have left there for me. If she left something for me to find.”

  “Hell.” Rafe hadn’t thought of that. He manned up. “Could be my curse, too.”

  “What a sorry couple of dudes we are,” Conrad snorted. “Could you drop by…no. I’ll have one of the P.I.’s go over and sort through the whole damn mess. If Marta left me something, a pro might find it. Otherwise my attorney will handle it and find a place for the housekeeper, send her on vacation, maybe. Don’t worry about it, man.”

  “Okay,” Rafe said reluctantly.

  “I never liked the place, anyway. Mom rebuilt when I was a kid and it’s too modern.”

  “Mystic Circle is really nice,” Rafe said.

  “Yeah?” Conrad almost sounded as if he perked up. “You seeing a lot of the sexy Sarga, then?”

  Rafe looked at Amber. “Yeah.”

  Conrad whistled. “Good job.”

  “You sound more cheerful,” Rafe said.

  “Marta slipped a note to the P.I. to give me. She said she loved me and I had to leave her alone, pleaded with me to go.”

  “Hmm,” Rafe said.

  “So I’m sticking,” Conrad said.

  “Of course you are.”

  “Folks can handle the business back in Denver,” Conrad said.

  “Tell me you don’t want to move to Bakir Zagora.”

  “I don’t want to move to Bakir Zagora.”

  “Okay.”

  “Later,” Conrad said.

  On the TV another stream of water inundated Conrad’s house. Rafe shook his head. “I’d hate to be the one searching that place after the firefighters and insurance people are done with it.” He went to the circular tower windows and looked out. The day had stayed gray, though the snow was gone and the newscaster had said it was forty degrees.

  “I need to get out of here,” Rafe said.

  Amber knew that without being informed. He’d been stuck in the neighborhood for a full day. Jogging with the dogs wasn’t enough.

  “I’m surprised you lasted as long as you have confined to Mystic Circle and the neighborhood,” she said calmly. “What are your plans?”

  “There’s still a lot of snow in the mountains.”

  “For sure. Snowboarding or skiing?”

  He walked to the door, put his hand on the knob and she saw his shoulders tense. “I can’t do it.” Turning back to her, every line in his face showed frustration. “I can’t mess around with sports anymore. I have to do something. But it has to be something that will break my curse.” His escaping breath hissed. “My fencing lessons don’t start until this afternoon.”

  “And you need activity now.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you don’t want to play the game on your tablet.”

  He cut the air with the flat of his hand. “That’s a construct for me to…” He shrugged. “The hell I know.”

  “Learn how to manifest the dagger.”

  “What’s this manifesting? I looked it up online and only got New Age garbage.”

  “I believe Pavan means that you should—” she paused and wetted her lips, knowing he wouldn’t like what she said next “—try drawing the dagger to you magically.”

  He snorted. “Oh. Yeah. That’s easy. That’s going to happen. Not.”

  “I have an idea,” she said. She went and got an L-shaped stick and handed it to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “A dowsing rod.”

  “What!”

  “Maybe if you try to feel—”

  “Water?”

  “Energies. The four elemental magical energies. Mystic Circle is good for that, and the neighborhood, too.”

  He held the wooden handle…his eyes narrowed wickedly and the rod slowly rose to point at her middle. “Oh, yeah, energy.” He raised his brows. “Sexual energy.”

  She lifted her own brows, smiled slowly, canted a hip, called his bluff. “For sure. What are you going to do about it?”

  A fleeting expression of yearning crossed his face, his eyes seemed to deepen with need for more than sex. Then he sent her a cocky smile. “Later. We will definitely do som
ething about manifesting our own energies, combining them, later.”

  “Does that feel okay in your hand? Or would you like something different? I borrowed these from a friend.” She gestured to the love seat in the turret that held more sticks.

  He glanced at her, then the array of rods.

  The stick didn’t feel as strange in his hand as it should have, since he’d always believed dowsing was a load of crap. Rafe studied the selection of L-shaped sticks and handles, clueless.

  Tiro strode in. He glanced at the TV and lowered the volume, then stared at the dowsing rod Rafe held and sneered. Tiro said, “The death-cursed needs a better tool.”

  Amber removed a silver chain from a drawer handle and gave him a chocolate frosted donut, then locked the drawer with the chain again. “So, Tiro,” Amber said, “you can feel the magical energies of the cul-de-sac.”

  Tiro’s lip, dotted with brown crumbs, curled. “A’course.”

  “And you’d know how the sidewalk and the park in the middle and each house feels, magically?” Amber asked.

  The brownie nodded.

  “Good.” She stared at Rafe. “That’s what I want you to try to feel through the dowsing rod.”

  “Will need a better tool than those,” Tiro grunted. “Might get him one.” He stared at the drawer and Amber gave him another donut.

  “A real magical tool,” Amber breathed.

  “It will be brownie-made, not dwarven-made,” Tiro said.

  “That’s fine,” Amber said.

  “Sure,” Rafe said. “Should get used to magical tools. I’ll have a magical dagger when I face Bilachoe,” Rafe pointed out. “Probably not forged by brownies.”

  “The dagger contains all magics forged by dwarves of metal bespelled by elves, in spellfire provided by djinns, and cooled by mers with their water.”

  “Truly special.” Amber nodded, though Rafe guessed she had no idea how impressive that might be, just like he didn’t. Probably amazingly awesome, though.

  “But if you know what the magical energies of the circle are, you can double-check what he feels,” Amber said.

  “I can do that.” The tips of his ears quivered, folded over a little like he was interested. He piled up several donuts. “Going to my cottage. To freeze these for treats when this ends badly and is all over. Got a real nice dowsing rod at home. Centuries old.” He shot Rafe a look from under lowered brows. “You keep it if you live. I get it back if you die.”