Enchanted Again

“The more curses you break, the sooner you’ll die.”

Magic has a price—and for Amber Sarga it’s days and years off her life. Each curse she breaks ages her—and the bigger the curse the bigger the cost, and not only to her. That’s why she hides away and has vowed not to get involved again… That’s why she hates looking in a mirror…

And then an ill-fated stranger arrives. Rafe Davail doesn’t believe in curses—not even knowing that in his family every first son dies young. Amber offers guidance but she won’t break the curse. Still, as she grows closer to Rafe and discovers the secrets of their pasts, she wonders if for this time, this man, she should risk it all…

Praise for the novels of

Robin D. Owens

“RITA® Award-winner Owens offers a world strongly imbued

with a sense of magic in this contemporary fantasy series launch.…

Romance and fantasy fans will enjoy Jenni’s preparation to enter a

new world of compromise between the Folk, humans, and technology.”

—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on Enchanted No More

“A multi-faceted, fast-paced gem of a book.”

—The Best Reviews on Guardian of Honor

“This book will enchant readers who enjoy strong heroines.”

—RT Book Reviews on Sorceress of Flight

“Fans of Anne McCaffrey and Mercedes Lackey will appreciate the novel’s

honorable protagonists and their lively animal companions.”

—Publishers Weekly on Protector of the Flight

“Strong characterization combined with deadly danger

make this story vibrate with emotional resonance.

Stay tuned as events accelerate toward the final battle.”

—RT Book Reviews on Keepers of the Flame

“A glorious end to the series.”

—Wild on Books on Echoes in the Dark

Enchanted Again

Robin D. Owens

www.mirabooks.co.uk

To all my friends, online and off; to my critique buddies

and beta readers, word warriors and other LUNA authors.

I couldn’t do this without your continued support.

And to my mom and my new stepdad.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

March

Denver, Colorado

IF SHE AGED naturally, Amber Sarga would have been twenty-six. But her gift for curse breaking cost her days, weeks, months…years.

She’d found another gray hair today. Gray hair on a gray day.

Amber was taking a break from her home genealogical business to prepare a flower bed. Halfheartedly she stuck the big trowel into the dirt. An odd scent drifted to her and she straightened. There was something in the air....

When her yellow Labrador puppies, Baxt and Zor, went into a barking frenzy, she turned. And saw a small brown being in her garden. Her mouth fell open. He was plucking a bloom from the heavy mass of her violets and dropping the flower into a jar.

He was nothing human. Small, under three feet, thin, triangular face and large triangular ears, he was definitely magic. Over the past few years, living in Mystic Circle’s cul-de-sac, Amber had gradually become aware that there was true magic in the world, and magical people.

Although they tried, the puppies couldn’t get near him. They bounced off some sort of force field. He wore boots and sturdy pants and a shirt. All brown.

Amber swallowed. “What are you?”

“I’m a brownie,” he grumbled.

She had a brownie in her garden. She swallowed again. “And you are, uh, harvesting violet blooms?”

His brown slit-pupil gaze fixed on her trowel, he gave a short nod. “You have good stuff here.” He sniffed. “Much better than Jenni’s few plants.”

He must mean Jenni Weavers, her neighbor to the south. With enough spit to speak again, Amber said, “Thank you. And you need the blooms for…?”

“Going to crystallize them as a candied accent.”

“Ah.” Amber nodded. It didn’t seem strange that a magical being would eat violets. “I have a chocolate pie recipe with crystallized violets.”

The brownie’s large eyes grew huge, seeming to take up more space on his face. “Chocolate pie,” he breathed, clutching his jar. Then he offered it to her. “Chocolate pie.” The tips of his ears quivered.

Ah, so he loved chocolate.

“I could make a chocolate pie for you. And maybe you could help me with my magical gift.”

His mouth pursed as he scanned her from top to toe. “One of the Cumulustre human offspring. Gypsy strain?”

“Huh? I’m Amber Sarga.”

He scrinched his boney shoulders together and kept his mouth shut.

The puppies’ yips increased in volume. With a flick of his fingers and a guttural mutter, the brownie cast something fine and silky at the pups. They abruptly collapsed into snoring sleep. Then he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes and bent down to caress another violet bloom. “I can candy them for you…for the chocolate pie.”

“Of course.”

“When will you make it?”

Amber raised her brows. “I’ll shop for the ingredients today and the chocolate pie will be done tomorrow afternoon.” Every time she said chocolate pie the brownie’s catlike pupils dilated a little more.

Again with the mournful eyes. He was better with the appealing look even than the puppies.

He said, “All the chocolate in Jenni’s house disappeared.”

Into a round brownie tummy, Amber figured.

A shiver ran along the ground under Amber’s soles. Her ears popped as a female brownie appeared. “What are you doing here, Pred?” She put her hands on her hips and tapped a tiny foot on the yellow grass. Her flexible triangular ears rolled close to her skull and up again. She glared at the man. “You knew she has enough magic to see you, and that she believes in magic. Why didn’t you turn invisible?”

The guy threw out his chest. “She’s Jenni’s friend and our neighbor. If she can see magic, better that she sees me than violets being plucked and vanishing.”

With a huff of breath the woman shook her head. “We agreed that we wouldn’t contact her. You know the consequences.”

“What consequences?” asked Amber.

The female brownie sniffed lustily in Amber’s direction. “As we thought. A descendant of the air-elf Cumulustre family.” The tiny woman frowned. “Cadet branch. Strain of Romani blood.”

“Not enough for the gypsies to claim me,” Amber said, barely able to speak for the words buzzing in her brain: Descendant. Elf. Cumulustre. Elf!

“Now we’ve met her, we can’t ignore her,” the little woman continued, staring at Pred. “You will have to inform the great brownie Tiro that he is not free. His geas to serve the human branch of the Cumulustre family is still in effect.”

The guy cringed, shoulders up, ears down. “Tiro will be angry.”

“Were the violets worth it?” the woman asked.

Standing tall—nearly three feet—the guy hissed, “Yesss. She is going to make us chocolate pie with the violets. Anything else is not our problem.”

“Chocolate pie.” The woman stilled. Weakly she said, “Well, I suppose the damage is done.” She took the jar from the guy’s limp fingers, sprinkled fizzing magic on it and the violets candied.

“This enough?” asked the man.

“Yes,” Amber said automatically.

The brownie woman sighed. “Maybe, if we are careful, we won’t have to say anything to Tiro for a while.” She put the jar on the ground, linked elbows with the man, muttered, “Cumulustre” and they both vanished. Probably to next door. Amber’s next-door neighbor, Jenni Weavers, was not quite human. Amber wasn’t exactly sure what Jenni was, but the woman had a way with fire.

Amber sat down hard, and the puppies, now released from the sleep spell, bolted over to her and tumbled into her lap, licking her face.

Rafe winced as his friend’s fist hit the top of his car. No way to treat a Tesla. Rafe said nothing. Conrad had just watched his wife divorce him and the judge give custody of his son to his ex.

Not to mention the fact that former wife, infant son and her attorneys vanished as soon as they’d left the courtroom. No sign of them, hide nor hair.

Rafe dreaded the words Conrad would say pretty damn soon.

“It’s the curse,” Conrad said.

Those words. Everything in Rafe stilled. Or maybe his muscles froze and his blood pumped hot. One of the strange things that had brought them together in college, the fact that they both came from “cursed” families. Weird in the modern world.

Conrad fumbled his key chain. Rafe jostled Conrad, snagging the door opener when it dropped from his fingers. “You’re riding. I’m driving.”

Grumbling, Conrad shambled to the passenger side. As soon as he was strapped in, he repeated, “It’s the curse.”

Rafe stopped checking the rearview for the progress of the huge SUV inching out into the lane behind him. He looked at Conrad, who was as pale as the white shirt he wore with his gray suit. “You can’t believe a guy you saw once,” Rafe said.

“The guy was my father, and he was right. We Cymblers love and lose. Lose our sons, too. Soon after we find the kid again as an adult, we die. Has been happening for generations. He left a family tree. You saw it.”

“You shouldn’t believe an alcoholic.”

“That’s brutal, Rafe. You’re just in denial of your own damn deadly curse.”

Rafe started the car. “I’ll get you home and we’ll check in with the private investigative firm I hired to keep track of your wife.”

“Wait. Rafe, just wait a damn minute.” Conrad sounded drunk. He hadn’t been sleeping well, Rafe knew that, and Conrad was probably hanging on to the last shred of his control. Hell, the man was desperate.

Rafe flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Nice machine. He preferred Italian, but this electric vehicle was excellent. “What?”

Conrad said, “I’m thinking we need to try more unusual avenues to get rid of our curses.”

“What are you talking about?” The SUV was finally gone. Rafe reversed.

“I’ve got the name of a curse breaker.” Conrad tapped the nav and a map showed up. “That’s the way.”

Snorting before he grimaced, Rafe said, “This is stupid.”

“Humor me.” Conrad’s voice cracked.

“Yeah, right.” Rafe waited a beat. Conrad said nothing more. Rafe could understand pride. “Okay.” He scrolled the map so he could see the whole thing, then back at the route. Rafe hadn’t been in Denver for a while, but he was good with maps.

A lot of cops were in the vicinity and they eyed the hot red Tesla roadster. Rafe drove carefully to the street.

Before he could say anything, his cell rang with a familiar tone. “That’s my detective. Pocket of my jacket. Put it on speaker.” A cop was tailing him, watching. He’d mind his manners.

Conrad snatched the phone, thumbed it on. Through the static, Rafe heard, “Davail, this is Herrera at Ace Investigations.”

“Yeah?” Rafe asked.

“We lost them,” reported the private detective Rafe had hired…just in case.

“Find them. Money is no object.” He jerked his head at Conrad, who turned off the phone. Then Rafe accelerated on northbound Speer and kept to the posted, low speed limit on the elevated bridge.

Conrad said, “Thanks, bro. I’ll pay you back.” He rolled his shoulders. “Now it begins, the search—” he waved “—everything else. At least I know I’ll live until I see him again. Not like your family death curse. You really think you’re going to last eight months to your thirty-third birthday?”

Rafe ignored the fast clench of his gut. “For sure. Don’t worry about Marta and Dougie. We’ll find them. This P.I. firm’s the best.”

Conrad shook his head again.

A few minutes later they’d pulled up and parked in front of a brick Victorian house, complete with turret. The place was tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac.

“This is such a stupid idea,” Rafe said.

Conrad said stiffly, “She’s the real deal, a gypsy and a curse breaker. I got her name a while back from a Romani psychic.”

Conrad had always believed more in the “curses” than Rafe. Believed enough to research them a little, visit a psychic or three, line up experts, “keep his options open.” Rafe had ignored his friend’s quirk then. Now it was a real pain in the ass. More, Rafe was worried that some wacko would latch onto Conrad’s hurt and fear and milk it for all he was worth. Which was considerably less than it had been since Marta had wanted a lump sum settlement and Conrad had paid it.

But Conrad still had a couple of million to attract leeches of the worst sort.

Conrad closed his door, glanced around. He rolled his shoulders. “Don’t need to lock the Tesla. Lots of good energy.”

Rafe winced, but Conrad loved his car. Seemed to Rafe that was a good sign they wouldn’t be staying long. The sooner he got Conrad back to the home he’d inherited from his mother, the better.

“I’ll know if the woman’s a fake. I always know,” Conrad said.

Rafe shrugged. Conrad had always said that, Rafe had always doubted the whole thing.

“There’s a certain something about a woman with psi.” His mouth twisted. “Marta had it, a strong gift.” Conrad cocked his head. “Do you hear voices?”

“Kids,” Rafe said. The tones had been high and piping, but were lost now in wild puppy barks. Reluctantly he followed Conrad as the man ignored the front concrete sidewalk and went around the south side of the house to a six-foot iron-post gate.

“Hello, Amber Sarga!” Conrad called.

Two young golden Labs raced from the back to jump on the other side of the gate. A frowning woman appeared a few instants later, not looking anything like the image Rafe had imagined. He’d visualized long dark and curly hair, and her wearing gypsy garb like he’d seen in films.

Instead he thought of honey. Her skin was a natural tan, her eyes slightly tilted and golden brown. Her shoulder-length hair was a mixture of honey-and-maple-syrup-colored shades. And her lips were full and a dark rose. She wore blue jeans and two layered sweaters. The bottom one was white, a nice contrast against her skin, the top a dark turquoise.

“Ms. Sarga.” Conrad actually grabbed the gate and rattled it. “I need to speak to you immediately. It’s an emergency.”

Amber stared at the pair of handsome guys. About her physical age of early thirties, older than her true age of twenty-six.

The dark, sophisticated-looking one appeared sweating and desperate. The guy with blond hair was scowling. If the clothes they wore and the car they drove was any indication, they were rich.

None of that mattered as much as the fact that her fingers were tingling like they did when her gift stirred. She was in the presence of a strong curse. Then a wave of air rippled toward her and she revised her thought. Two strong curses.

“Hsssst!”

She glanced back and saw the male brownie just around the corner of her house.

“Come back here! Don’t go near them! Don’t use your magic!” A stream of hushed words shot from the small man.

“Please, Ms. Sarga,” the dark guy pleaded.

A lump of aching emotion formed in her chest. She didn’t want to refuse someone who needed help. She hated doing that.

A desperate man. A desperate curse. A decade of aging.

“Baxt, Zor, go to the yard.” She used a hand signal but didn’t think the pups would have obeyed her if they hadn’t spotted the brownie.

Slowly Amber walked to the gate. It wasn’t padlocked, so the men could have entered, good that they hadn’t.

“I’m sorry.” She made her voice as soothing and gentle as she could. “My workload is full right now.” A lie, she could use a good client or two—but not this one. “I can recommend—”

“Please, Ms. Sarga. I must speak with you immediately.”

“Sir, genealogy is not a business that has emergencies.” She couldn’t help him now—maybe never—but not now, when she might be able to learn more about her magic from the brownies and how to use it better.

There was a long pause. His voice cracked. “My wife has vanished, along with my year-old son.”

A shudder passed through her. She wanted to ask what his curse was—but that would be revealing too much.

“I’m sorry.” She forced the words from her throat.

The man jerked hard on the gate and she stepped back.

“Conrad, take it easy.” The blond guy put his hand on the dark one’s shoulder.

“Conrad?” asked Amber, then felt a surge of anger at herself. Don’t ask names. Don’t get involved. Her gift didn’t age only her. And she’d given up her magic as too dangerous months ago, gotten the puppies to ensure she wouldn’t waver.

The blond man weighed her with a hard stare.

Words tumbled from Conrad. “I’m Conrad Tyne-Cymbler. My curse has already happened. I’m worried for my son.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I don’t want him to grow up without a father like I did.”

She flinched at the pain in Conrad’s voice. “I’m sor—”

“Please help me. You’re a genealogist. I have a family tree. I can hire you to work on that as well. I’ll pay you whatever.”

“I can’t find your son—”

“I have private investigators,” Conrad said at the same time the blond man said, “We’re working that situation.”

Conrad continued, “I’m desperate. Please help me.”

Amber blinked again, this time against stupidly stinging eyes. She couldn’t refuse a direct and desperate request for help. At least she could listen, maybe trace the original curse so the guy could break it himself. That could happen. Maybe.

“All right.” Her voice was thick, dammit! She didn’t want the man to know how weak she was.

“Can we come in?”

She said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have your family tree?”

“I…uh…no.”

She looked at the blond, who had angled his body as if to protect his friend from her. “Do you?”

He snorted. “No.”

She widened her hands. “I need to prepare. Come back tomorrow.”

“You promise you’ll listen?” persisted Conrad.

Amber hesitated.

“I need you,” he pressed.

Again she couldn’t say no. A problem most of the women of her family had had. They were all dead now. “All right. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. at my office on Hayward and Oak. You have the address?”

Conrad nodded. “Thank you.”

“This is crap,” said the blond.

She sucked in a breath. “Do you have a card?”

“Card?” Conrad asked blankly.

After another narrow-eyed stare at her, Conrad’s friend dipped a hand in the pocket of Conrad’s fine gray suit jacket and pulled out a piece of pasteboard. Scowling, the man shoved it though the spears of the gate.

Amber had to go closer to get it and as she did, the hair on the back of her neck rose. This man’s curse was even worse than the other’s. He didn’t appear to care.

She took the card, avoiding his fingers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned and walked to her backyard. Pred, the brownie, was still there.

They stared at each other silently until the roar of the engine announced that the men were gone. The brownie looked up at her with big, sad eyes, his ears rolled down to his head. “Too late now. I will have to tell Tiro about you. He will be angry.” The small being shook his head. “It is not good to live with an angry brownie.”

“Live! What?”

With a shake of his head, Pred said, “And that is not the worst. Your magic hurts you when you use it. I am sorry for you.”

But not as sorry as Amber was…

Chapter 2

RAFE HAD BEEN driving for several minutes when he had to say it. “That was one of the stupidest things I’ve ever seen you do.”

“I’m dealing with my curse and the aftermath,” Conrad snapped, not opening his eyes. “Unlike you. And you’ve made a career of being stupid. Rock-climbing, glacier snowboarding, extreme sports. Like you’re tempting death to take you before you’re thirty-three.”

“Like I’m living every moment of my life to the fullest,” Rafe said evenly, an old argument.

“I really love Marta and my son.” Conrad veered back to the most important topic.

“I know you do,” Rafe said. He threaded through the traffic on Speer, muscles moving as he used the clutch and gearshift. He was better with action.

Conrad said, “You told the P.I. team to check out flights to Eastern Europe, right?”

“Of course. And did you do a run on her?” Rafe asked.

“Marta ran,” Conrad answered.

“I meant, did you have someone investigate the sexy genealogist?”

Conrad cracked an eye, the side of his mouth near Rafe kicked up. “Sexy, huh?” He closed his eyes. “She did have a good body. Looked like her name…Amber. Yeah, I had someone research her background.”

“When?” Rafe asked.

“When?” Conrad’s tones were getting slow and foggy. “When I got her name. ’Bout a year and a half ago, I guess.”

“You still have the file?”

“Sh-sure.” Conrad fell asleep.

Rafe took the exit for Conrad’s mansion in Cherry Creek. Since Rafe only had a small, dusty apartment in Manhattan that he hit from time to time between adventures, he was bunking with Conrad.

At a stoplight, he punched the in-car phone for his investigators.

“Mr. Davail,” the detective’s assistant said politely. “We will call you with any updates.”

“Got another job for you.”

“Oh. Yes?”

“Name is Amber Sarga, gypsy genealogist, age in the early thirties, brown hair and eyes, about five feet seven inches, a hundred and thirty pounds.” He still thought of the woman as honeyed, much warmer and more vital than amber. Not stony to him. “She lives at number seven Mystic Circle in Denver.” He paused, mouth turning down, decided to say the words anyway. “Supposed to be—” but he couldn’t get “a curse breaker” out of his mouth “—psychic.”

“We’ll get right on that,” the assistant assured him.

“It’s urgent. Got a meeting with her tomorrow morning.”

“We’ll have a report to you by the end of the day.”

“Thanks.” He disconnected the call and wondered what the hell he was getting into. Conrad twitched and moaned.

A fleeting curiosity about his own family tree—and all those first sons who died before thirty-three—wisped through Rafe’s mind.

Maybe he’d call his younger brother. Gabe was the practical one, running the family corporations, salt of the earth. He’d said something about a family tree a long while back. Rafe would bet his helicopter that Gabe had a chart or two Rafe could slap down in front of the honeyed Ms. Sarga.

Not that it would change anything. A tendril of fear began to whip acid inside his gut. Conrad’s curse had come true.