Enchanted Again

He was still here, because of his friend. Conrad wasn’t the only one who was loyal and solid.

Then Rafe yanked his phone from his pocket, called. Scowled. He left a message, then made another call and words shot from him in what she already knew were orders.

She drank her own cocoa. He was an interesting man. The barista shot Amber a grin as she placed Rafe’s mug on the counter before him. Oh, yeah, Amber’s gaze had wandered along his body. It was evident that he was in prime shape from all those sports of his.

All those extreme, risky sports. One of which could kill him in the next few months. Would that be fate or free will?

Heavy questions she’d never really wanted to contemplate.

Rafe nodded to the server as he laid down a bill, flashed her a smile that Amber hadn’t been given. Then he prowled back toward her, stood over her with narrowed eyes, drank from his cup. “You have a feeling that Marta is being used.”

“Yes.”

He sat back down in the chair opposite, his entire attention focused on her in a way he hadn’t done before. “If Marta is being used, then someone tougher than her might be after Conrad, and now he’s going to their playing field. I called him and Ace Investigations.”

Again Rafe glanced aside. This part of the coffeehouse didn’t have windows and she believed that bothered him since he spent so much time outdoors. Thinking back, there hadn’t been a free table in the front room—except the table saved for group and community events, and he hadn’t encroached on that.

There were a lot of things to like about Rafe Davail.

“Conrad also believes in psychic crap.” Rafe drank more, didn’t look at her. His expression turned to one of scorn. “Nothing I could say could talk him out of spending money on those fakers. He claimed Marta was psychic, was fascinated with her because of that. She hosed him good. Now I’ve got to deal with another woman with feelings.”

And there was a lot to dislike about Rafe, too. “Like I said before, I didn’t seek you two out.” She stood and rolled the charts, stuck them in the tube and picked it up. “I’ll get right to work.” The smile she aimed at him was cool. “You’ll be pleased to know that I do work on weekends.”

“Marta married Conrad, broke his heart, took his money and his kid,” Rafe said. He stood, too. “I can see that I should have gotten this to go. Wait for me.”

“Why? You hired me to do a job for a friend of yours. You don’t like me. You don’t respect me.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said.

“That’s not necessary,” she said.

He moved his shoulders, not quite a shrug, more like an itch in his back. Amber looked at Tiro. He was glowering, as usual. At Rafe.

“I’d rather you let me walk you home,” Rafe said.

She cleared her throat. “You have a hunch or something?”

“No,” he snapped. Then he grimaced, ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. It’s been a very long couple of days. Probably shouldn’t have hinted that your feelings make you a bad person.”

“No. You shouldn’t have done that.” She waited for his rationalization.

“Sorry. And Conrad dumped me, and there’s something about this place that feels funny. No offense.”

She stared at Tiro. “None taken, though you were uncomfortable in my office, too.”

“Okay, I get it. It’s me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “This whole damn thing has made me twitchier than usual.” He managed a smile at her. “And Conrad left me flat. I’d just as soon wait near your place—”

“Mystic Circle?” She leaned on the words.

Rafe winced, nodded. “Yes, Mystic Circle. Please. Wait.” He hesitated. “Not quite done with this discussion.”

Amber heaved a put-upon sigh, but stayed while he charmed—and tipped—the barista for putting his drink in a to-go cup. Rafe was old money and big city and it showed.

But she was Mystic Circle. Magic. Brownies. Right now she was hiding that fact, but it warmed her insides. And she’d match that as an exclusive club against any other Rafe might belong to: winners of extreme sports, old money wealth, Manhattan home owner.

Death cursed.

Yes, that might be very exclusive, too, but not a group anyone would want to belong to. And she should remind herself that whether he believed in curses or not, most of his male forebears had died before they were thirty-three. He was thirty-two.

That would certainly weigh heavily on her. Almost as heavily as Tiro’s doomsaying.

They left the coffeehouse in silence and began walking back to Mystic Circle. They were away from the storefronts and into the residential area before he spoke again. “Aren’t you going to ask me about my curse?” His smile was sharp.

“No.”

“It was a gypsy woman—”

She lifted her brows. “Really?”

“That’s the story. Really common story, isn’t it? What else would someone say if you talked about such a crazy thing? Hell, who else did curses? But we don’t have much in the way of histories, stories or notes. Too many deaths in the family.” His expression was shadowed again, dim with brooding. “I was five when my dad died. He and Mom were estranged.” Another quick smile, this one humorless. “Though they got together a few months before he died—long enough to make my brother, Gabe.”

“I’m sorry. How did he die?”

“Hit-and-run car accident.”

“Even worse.”

“Yeah. It was bad. Lived with my great uncle after that.” Rafe glanced at her. “’Til my teens. Then he and Mom decided I’d be better off in an academy. That wasn’t too bad. It was European and we were all into sports.” He chuckled. “I’m not too bad of a polo player.”

“Uh-huh. Is your mother still living?”

His athletic stride became stiffer, she didn’t think he’d noticed. “Yes. She’s not in our lives. Never really wanted to be. What of your own parents?”

Well, she’d asked him. But she was the genealogist and interested in families. She didn’t know why he’d ask about hers except it was small talk people did when they were attracted to each other. Though she couldn’t gauge how much he was interested in her. He might like looking at her, but she wasn’t in his league—any of his leagues—and didn’t think she’d care to be. Didn’t guys like him date supermodels or minor European royalty?

“I never knew my father. My mother and aunt died when I was about six, and I was brought up by distant cousins.” Well-paid relatives who hadn’t loved her, not as much as she sensed his uncle and brother loved Rafe.

“Huh. Something we have in common.”

“I guess so,” she said. They stopped at the sidewalk leading up to her house. She gestured with the tube. “I’ll start work on Conrad’s lineage tomorrow. I have another job I need to finish first.” Rafe was looking down at her with intent eyes, as if, for the first time, he was seeing her instead of some gypsy psychic woman taking advantage of his desperate friend.

She wasn’t sure that she liked him looking at her as if he were interested. She should definitely not get too close to this guy and his curse. “Due to the circumstances, I won’t be putting Conrad’s family tree online, unless you notify me that he—or you—want it public to try to garner additional information.” Rafe was still staring at her. “Your family tree is already online and public, but the living are masked except on my pro databases. Do you want me to add information and comments to the public database, or not?”

That query clunked a bit as they stared at each other. Would he still be living in eight months?

He took a step back and his expression became more guarded, his smile casual with a lack of sincerity, a flash of hurt in his eyes. “I’m sure my brother and uncle would appreciate that.” Rafe nodded toward the tube. “Gabe sent that to me.”

She nodded. “And maybe, since Conrad is soon to be out of the country, I could have your contact information? Since you want reports and all. If your brother didn’t provide you with an account name and password for the database, I can do that for you, too.”

He ran his hand through his hair, his smile turned lopsided. “I did bring a tablet computer. I was staying with Conrad. Don’t know that I’ll remain there. He wouldn’t mind, but it’s a cold place.” He shifted his balance, as if uneasy, something she didn’t think he usually did. “I should be windsurfing in Tarifa, not here.”

“Up to you. Think about it and email me or call.” She handed him her card and started up the sidewalk to home. It looked good, a sanctuary from scariness. Death curses, lost children…men who’d been lost children. “I’ll have your first report in about three days. Then we can update weekly. Naturally, the farther back we go, the slower it gets. I’ll let you know if I have to travel on site anywhere.” A quick business smile and she slipped in the door, shut it behind her with a sigh and leaned back against it, closing her eyes.

“You gonna break his curse and die?” Tiro said.

She jumped, clapped a hand to her chest. Talk about scary weirdness.

Tiro said, “You shouldn’t even associate with him. Just going to lead to trouble. I tell you that right now.”

“Where are the puppies? I prefer their greeting.”

“They wanted out,” he said. “Nice pups. You know if you break a big curse while you’re emotionally attached to them, they’ll die, too. Dogs age even faster than humans.”

That made her insides clench and hurt. “I know.” She could feel blood drain from her face as memories of dying pets stabbed her. She glared at Tiro. “I learned that the hard way. It would have been nice to have someone around to let me know such consequences.”

“I thought Tshilaba left journals. She’d worked on them long enough.”

“Journals! Plural? I only have one, and it doesn’t tell me very much.”

Tiro whistled and the back door slammed open and the puppies raced in. For the first time, the morning tilted into balance as she hugged and scratched them. This is what mattered—loving, being loved.

Helping mattered, too, but not at the cost of loving.

“So,” Tiro said. “Can I help you with the chocolate pie?”

“Can you help me with my magic?”

He scowled and shuffled his feet. “I helped in the beginning for the first five women. Didn’t work, no matter how I tried. I’ve a binding to serve you. Can help or not. But you don’t learn, none of you.” He pounded his chest and it was like an echo against rock, then he pointed a four-jointed finger—the brownies all had four-jointed fingers—at her.

“You have a binding, too. Your elf Cumulustre blood gives you magic, but being human limits it. You drain yourself for others. That isn’t healthy. That’s your great lesson. And none of you women have learned it.” He threw up his hands. “Why are you all so stupid?” With a last glower, he disappeared.

Shaken, Amber let the puppies knock her on her rump, accepted doggie kisses. She let emotion storm through her, past regrets…and current fears.

She decided to focus on current hopes. Being around the brownies seemed to have boosted her magic. She would concentrate on her minor magic, the visions of past events as she worked on family trees. She needed to check her ancestress’s journal to see what it said about the solution of a curse given at the same time the original curse was laid. But Amber was sure she’d have remembered that if it had been there.

Curses. Bindings.

They were much alike.

Rafe watched the very-easy-on-the-eyes Ms. Amber Sarga shut her house door firmly behind her.

He turned and looked at the round park in the middle of the circle, finished his drink and noted an empty trash can. He crossed and dropped in his cup. The park smelled nice, like winter passing.

The place had a good mixture of full evergreens and tall, budding deciduous trees. When the bushes leafed out and the flower beds were full of blossoms, the park would be as pretty as any in Denver; the garden as good as any at Conrad’s house.

Not that he would be here to see them. Winter sports were done, and he was looking forward to the summer season—beaches and waves, at least in the Northern Hemisphere.

It had been one odd morning. All the back-and-forth with the gypsy Sarga. The unaccustomed headaches and irritation. Conrad had acted strange even before he’d dumped and abandoned Rafe. He was pretty cool with that, he understood why Conrad ran, but it still left Rafe stranded. He pulled out his phone and called a limo service owned by another mutual friend.

“Brilliant Limousines,” the female dispatcher said in a throaty voice.

“Yes, I need a pickup at Mystic Circle.”

“Mystic Circle?”

“Yeah, you know, in northwest Denver?”

He heard rapid key tapping. “Oh. Yes. Mystic Circle. Where are you going?”

He had to pick up his stuff from Conrad’s, but he sure wouldn’t be staying there. “One hundred South Gilpin.”

More tapping. “Right. Would you like to charge that now?”

“I have an account.” He rarely used it. “Rafe Davail.”

“We’ll have a car there in half an hour.”

“That’s fine.”

“And you’ll be at what house address on Mystic Circle?”

“I’m on the street. It’s a cul-de-sac, find me.”

“Yes, sir.”

He hung up.

Birds warbled in the trees. Someone was baking something that smelled really good. Nice day.

Conrad had been right about the neighborhood. The area was charming. It felt…safe. Rafe shrugged off the word. He hadn’t spent his life feeling safe.

Maybe because he’d never known “safe.” His parents had argued since he could remember, which had made living with them tense as a small child, a fact he’d forgotten until Amber had asked about his upbringing.

Safe. An odd word, and maybe that wasn’t what he was feeling. Maybe it was the simple lack of pressure to do the next competition, to be what acquaintances and the press believed him to be, to… Hell, he didn’t know. He only knew he had a half hour to burn and walking around the cul-de-sac was a good way to do it.

Mystic Circle. He snorted. How lame could you get? As if there were really woo-woo in the world. Magic.

Curses.

Did he really believe Conrad would find Marta and Dougie? Deep down? No.

Did he really believe he, himself, would be alive at the end of the year? Deep down?

Chapter 6

DEEP DOWN IN the dark inside him, something was screaming like a bloody animal caught in a trap.

He shoved that thought firmly aside. He didn’t think about it. Ever.

The circle was a good-size neighborhood, the houses not too close together. The first division of their family business had been real estate and Rafe knew enough about that to appreciate the area. Like many Denver neighborhoods, it was a mixture of styles. A brace of craftsman bungalows, the smallest of the houses, sat at each side of the entrance of the cul-de-sac. The street was only wide enough for two lanes—and two lanes the size of regular cars. Forget SUVs here.

Amber’s southern neighbor was a Denver square, two-storied of deep redbrick, and round windows on the second level that almost looked like eyes. When he and Amber had passed it, it had seemed to waver so he’d continue around. Amber’s place was a Victorian with a turret and a round window or two.

Next was a Tudor English-manor-type place that wouldn’t look out of place in the Berkshires. Then came a four-storied castle with round turrets on each side. The land rose a little and there was a stone wall topped with iron spikes before that place. Rafe paused before the gate. The house looked empty, but was obviously the most expensive lot in the neighborhood, and well-cared-for.

The following house wasn’t a style he knew. Wide at the bottom with a large porch consisting of many-paned windows. He liked the look of it. Redbrick, white trim. Solid. Three stories. It made him think of sea captains.

In Denver, right.

He kept on going to see a Spanish-style place with a red-tiled roof. Next was a house of angles, square towers, round windows again. Oddly charming though it was pink. A little plate on the gate read The Fanciful House. Then he reached the last bungalow and was at the street entrance and he still had fifteen minutes.

And he was getting hungry. There was an Irish pub in the business district. He’d call Brilliant Limos and direct them to O’Hearn’s. But he was reluctant to leave the cul-de-sac; it offered a quiet peace. He’d often thought that peace was overrated, but he liked it here.

His stomach grumbled and decided for him.

Within the minute, he’d asked the limo service to divert to O’Hearn’s and was informed that his friend Don was driving a black BMW sedan. He told the dispatcher that he’d treat Don to lunch and got an affirmative. Everything was set. He was a block from the business area and crossing the street to the corner pub when they dive-bombed him.

Huge crows. No! Shadowy bats.

He flung his arms up to cover his head, beat the things off. Could’ve sworn their beaks pierced his skin at his wrist. Were sucking.

His hand grasped something—feathers? Oily fluff, leather. But he felt a neck in his fingers, the thing struggled madly. More things hit his head, his shoulders. Too much force for birds or bats. Like he’d been caught in a shot of forced air.

He fell. Hard on the pavement. Heard the neck snap. The bird went limp.

Brakes squealed and a big, black Beemer stopped inches before hitting him. The door flew open and a man got out, yelling, “Hell, Rafe, what the hell are you doing in the middle of the street!”

Rafe let the thing go, sat up and rubbed his head. It hurt, but he didn’t think he’d hit it on the tarmac. One of the bat things had thudded into his temple, hard.

No. Of course not. “You see any bats?”

“Bats!” Don sounded incredulous. He set a beefy hand under Rafe’s elbow and boosted. “On a sunny day? In Denver?”

“No, I didn’t think so,” Rafe said. Blinking, he looked around. There were pigeons on the phone lines, but not even one crow. Damn.

“Geez.” Don, a stocky man a decade older than Rafe, manhandled him into the back of the car. “I’d’a never heard the end of it if I’d hit you. You need a doc? Should I take you to an emergency room?”

“No.” Rafe rubbed his temples. Liquid trickled along his left arm from his wrist. Tears in his shirt, scuffs on his jacket that he couldn’t determine came from sliding along gravel or a claw or two.

He used Don’s word. “Hell.”

Don pulled over to the curb, looked at Rafe over the seat. “A walk-in clinic’s close.”

Rafe worked his jaw, then smiled. That hurt. “No, I’m good. Had worse problems from a fall or two.”

Don grunted. “Better you than me. You still want to eat at O’Hearn’s or go to Conrad’s?”

“Conrad’s first. I want a hot shower.”

“Heard his divorce went through.”

“Yes.”

“Damn shame.”

“Yes.”

“Strap in, buddy,” Don ordered and kept his gaze in the rearview until Rafe did, then he checked for traffic—none—and pulled back into the street.

“You know any good hotels in the area?” The words were out of Rafe’s mouth before he knew he was going to say them. He didn’t know why. Except he liked the looks of Mystic Circle. And maybe he wanted to keep an eye on Sarga.

“There’s a good bed-and-breakfast a few blocks away. Big old Victorian place.”

“Girly?” Rafe asked.

“Nah, not so much. Also, an apartment place that might have something open.”

“I’ll take the B and B,” Rafe decided.

“Not staying at Conrad’s?”

“No. He’s going out of town, and I like the looks of this area. We can pick up my duffel, then come back to O’Hearn’s.”

“Sounds good. Steak is good at O’Hearn’s,” Don said.

“Right.” Rafe leaned back against the leather seat. The morning was catching up with him. He felt more battered than he should have, weaker. A glance at his left wrist showed blood crusting his blue cuff. He pushed the cuff back and saw bruising around the puncture.

Unaccustomed to being attacked from the air, he’d landed poorly. The left side of his face was scraped, and the fact that he’d gotten it from pavement when he wasn’t riding a bike and having fun pissed him off. His head ached and he figured he had a nice lump coming up above his temple. His left knee throbbed.

He talked basketball teams with Don and wondered about bats and crows and headaches and gypsy curses.

Rafe and Don never made it to O’Hearn’s. Instead Rafe showered and changed at Conrad’s and they ate food that had been prepared for Conrad and Rafe. He found a quick text from Conrad that he’d gotten Rafe’s message about Marta being used, and would be wary. Conrad had hired a plane to fly to Bakir Zagora. That reminded Rafe to call a car leasing company and rent a car. He settled for a Jag.

After lunch, Rafe informed the dour housekeeper he’d be staying at a bed-and-breakfast and saw relief in her eyes. He left her the number in case of any emergency.

When the Jag arrived, Don insisted on following Rafe to Juno’s Inn. The limo owner kept a shrewd gaze on him as Rafe took the steps. He ached, he didn’t deny that. At the porch, he turned and jerked his thumb for Don to go away. The BMW drove slowly, and Rafe figured he’d be hearing from Don the next day—just in case he was in worse shape than he admitted.

The middle-age woman who admitted him also noted his scraped face and limp and assured him that his room had a spa tub. Rafe nodded. He gritted his teeth up another flight of stairs. The place was too fussy for him, and he wondered how Amber Sarga decorated her Victorian.

Then he made it to the bed and decided to lie down for a couple of minutes. As sleep swirled around him, he saw shadows dive-bomb him again, felt the peck and stab of beaks…and the thing’s bone crack as its neck broke.

It took longer for Amber to wrap up Cissy Smart Gortel’s family tree and report than anticipated. But by the time Amber had, she was feeling better.

After she’d finished the family tree, she’d spread it out on her large worktable. Even before she touched the large chart, pink-purple magic swirled from her fingers. Surely it was a good sign that her minor magic came quicker now?

She knew, then, that she’d be able to include a story. Darkness had swirled around her and she’d observed a scene in the Smarts’ past. A wonderful, hopeful scene. Cissy’s forebears had been part of the underground railroad and helped slaves escape. A couple of hours later, Amber had found documentation of the event from several stories of ex-slaves compiled after the Civil War.

Smiling, Amber rolled up the chart and the report and put them in a tube and attached the proper postage. Before she left the room, her gaze was drawn to the tube that Conrad had given her.

No, it should wait for another day. Or at least after chocolate pie.

At the bottom of the stairs Tiro stood, scowling and with his arms crossed. For an instant he looked like an odd garden statue and she had to choke back a laugh.

“I’m ready for my pie,” he grumbled. He glanced at the mantel clock in the living room. “It’s almost tea time.”

“Chocolate pie takes twenty minutes to make at the most.” She had some frozen crusts.

He grunted. Amber shrugged and headed into the kitchen.

Time with the other brownies mellowed Tiro slightly. He was downright gleeful when he learned another brownie at Jenni’s place was indentured to a cat. And Tiro was pleased to be asked to help with Pred’s excavation projects.

Pred finished his piece quickly and said, “I will extend the tunnel from the common meeting area under the center of the cul-de-sac to your basement.” He glanced at Tiro. “You can help.”

Tiro’s eyes gleamed. “Digging!”

“See what you miss when you live by yourself?” Hartha said.

Pred tilted his head. “Open the tunnel from Jenni’s basement to yours. Put in a door.”