Читать книгу Enchanted Again - Robin D. Owens - Страница 14

Chapter 8

THE ELF HAD brought the dream back to Rafe.

No. In the way of dreams and his unconscious that formed them, he knew the crow-bat-evil-things had brought the dream back. That had started the countdown to his death.

He wouldn’t be able to outrun it, or speed away by cycle or car or boat.

And the dagger was back.

It floated before him horizontally, blue-steel and glittery as if there were an enamel coating on it with silver and gold sparkles embedded in it.

Or maybe those were stars.

His heart thumped hard. He wanted that blade. The shape of the weapon was more triangular than a regular sword blade and the length was less than a sword but more than a long dagger. The simple grip was a silver wire-wrapped handle.

He’d forgotten how the need for that blade…and maybe the girl…swallowed him, an ache that filled him, the dream, the universe.

As much as the longing to live, not for three more months, but until he passed away in his sleep from old age. After seeing his children, his sons—first and second and however many more—and daughters grown.

He wanted life with a passion that others couldn’t understand. He wanted the woman and he wanted the children.

But the elf’s eyes in the dream opened again and glittered like the blade and Rafe knew in his core that if he wanted to live and love, he must find the dagger.

Rafael Barakiel Davail, the elf said and Rafe woke up in a cold sweat.

Hell! What a dream. He rubbed his eyes, his face. And found that he had dried perspiration on his skin.

Flinging the sheets and heavy comforter aside he went to the bathroom and the mirror. His left wrist burned. The light was soft but didn’t make him look any better. His eyes appeared sunken, the skin on his face white and tight. When he looked down at the inside of his left arm, the veins looked black, not blue.

The sight caught at his throat, closed it. Fear shot through him. The type of fear that he clamped down on hard, refused to acknowledge, buried beneath other physical fears.

Three o’clock in the morning, of course, and it was time for the hardest question.

Did he believe that he would die before he reached thirty-three?

He tried to put the question off, but it throbbed in his brain like a splinter. How could he believe in something so irrational as a curse?

Conrad’s curse had come true.

Rafe didn’t have to look at the family tree file on his computer pad to know that every first son in his family had died before thirty-three for generations, and the family name had gone to a younger son or a nephew. That was beyond weird. What were the odds?

Could he afford to not believe in the curse? Face it. His life was on the line and there were no stakes higher. His eyes narrowed and he shifted from foot to foot, thinking that that was wrong. But what could be higher stakes to him than his own life?

That of his brother’s.

But his brother was safe. Gabe’s firstborn son wouldn’t be, a tragedy to come, that Rafe wouldn’t be around to suffer.

Conrad was safe, too. Rafe had gotten a short text from him. He was still hurting, but determined to find Marta.

Curses.

Just too much to believe in. Because if he believed in curses he’d have to rethink his whole life…and believe in other stuff, too. Like creatures that weren’t birds or bats but nasty, oily something-elses with hollow bones that disintegrated. And believing in blue-eyed elves that could snare you with a direct gaze. And dreams of magical blades and women.

And death in under eight months.

Nope. He just couldn’t believe. Not now, not even in a Victorian bathroom with cream-colored paper and lights in colored glass that looked like flowers that seemed more fantasy than real.

If he believed in the curse, he would have to act in some way to forestall it. And he didn’t know what to do, and from the past, all the other men in his family had been helpless to change their fate.

He couldn’t be helpless.

Since he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, he decided to do a little research of his own and pulled out his computer notepad.

The man-elfman had known his full name. Rafe turned on his tablet and pulled up search engines, keyed in his full name. Nothing. Not much under Rafael Davail or Rafe Davail, either. His wins, that made him smile. A few pics of him on the slopes or in the wind or waves, and that was good, too. Some with a lady or two on his arm. No special woman.

He recalled the name of the man—Pavan—and searched for that. Nothing that referred to a male individual who might have pointed ears. Definitely no social pages.

Then there was Eight Corp. Also very low-key. A closely and privately held corporation based in Denver and doing something in the energy sector. Which could mean about anything.

The low-battery icon on his screen flashed and Rafe swore. He hadn’t been quite ready to quit. Rolling off the bed, he crossed to his duffel and pulled out the cord, attached it to his computer, hunkered down to plug in the thing.

Shock sizzled up his fingers, flung him back into the middle of the room.

The lights went out.

His limbs flopped. Wha’?! Shaking his head, he levered himself up. He knew he hadn’t touched the prongs of the plug, or the outlet.

But he’d been shocked, for sure. If he had been closer to the outlet, touched it or the metal of the plug, he’d be dead.

His nerves still quivered under his skin. He lifted his hand and sniffed. Didn’t smell burned and that was a relief. He rubbed his fingertips together. Still working, still could feel them. Also good.

Moonlight from the large window pasted a pale square of light on the rug, but the lamps he’d had on were dark. He staggered to his feet and pulled the lamp chain, then tried a wall switch. Nothing.

Glancing out the window toward the corner, he saw that streetlights were on.

Again he shook his head and considered going to the lobby. He opened the door, no light in the hallway except from the skylights. Tiptoeing to the staircase, he listened. Nothing, no commotion. Which, if they hadn’t already noticed the electricity was off, must mean everyone else was in bed and probably asleep. So he went back to his room.

A rectangular red light blinked at him from the bed. His tablet. The screen looked like it was covered in blood spatter. Frowning, he picked it up. The screen went from red to black with dripping scarlet letters. Time has run out. The bomb exploded. You die.

Swallowing hard, he touched the pad. The end logo of the game, “Fly or Die,” scrolled down for a few seconds before the computer turned off.

Shaken, he sat on the bed in the dark. Yeah, of course he had the app “Fly or Die.” He’d played it a few times.

He’d never lost.

He shoved the tablet onto the bedside table, squinted. Something else was luminous.

It was the pale green business card he’d gotten that evening. Odd. He picked it up again, eyes widening when he saw a new word on it. “Pavan,” it said, then below, “Troubleshooter.”

Rafe began to think that he’d need someone to help him shoot the trouble in his life.

He crawled under the covers. It was a cold night. He waited to hear the heat turn on, but it didn’t. The old-fashioned wind-up mantel clock ticked the seconds away.

In the morning he was awakened by an apologetic host, informing him that the inn would have to close. There had been a freak accident that had blown the electrical system.

Rafe nodded, dressed and paid his shot and took off in the Jag to Mystic Circle. He wondered if Amber would like to go out for breakfast, then noted it was late, about 10:00 a.m.

He didn’t want to be anywhere except the cul-de-sac. Amber and the house he was interested in were good rationalizations to go back. Not just because he felt safer there for some unknown reason.

His cell lilted with the orchestral tune of his financial advisor. Since the Jag was a stick shift, he didn’t answer. As soon as he pulled into Mystic Circle, tension eased from him. He stopped before number two, the one he wanted to buy. The For Sale sign was gone. His heart gave a solid thump of disappointment. Had someone—say a dude with silver hair and pointed ears—snapped up the house before Rafe? And would it appeal to such a guy?

More hard thoughts about curses that worked when there should be no such thing. Of tall men who could look at you and have you sitting still to do whatever they wanted. Of disappearing beer and appearing lager.

He closed his eyes, replayed his conversation with Pavan and the implications. He’d followed his hunches most of his life, all except the deepest ones. Decision time.

His phone rang again and he answered his financial advisor’s call. “Hey, Cynthia. I’m sitting in front of number two Mystic Circle right now.”

“It’s very odd,” said Cynthia. “They won’t close without proof that you’ll be alive at the end of the year. I’ve never heard anything like it. Who can give proof of such a thing? I can forward some medical records if you want…”

“That wouldn’t work,” Rafe said. “Will they take earnest money to keep the house off the listings?”

“Yes…but, you know, it didn’t get listed.” Her tone was disapproving at the inefficiency.

“Who’s the owner?”

“Oh. It’s a firm there in Denver, not a regular real estate firm, though they have holdings.... Eight Corp.”

Rafe wasn’t really surprised. “All right then. Give them the earnest money.”

A pause. “The amount is such that I’ll have to notify your brother, Gabriel.”

Rafe didn’t say that she could tell Gabe the next time they were in bed—he was slightly less rude. “When’s the wedding?”

“He won’t make plans until next year.”

Probably because he thought he’d be mourning a brother. Gabe hadn’t told Cynthia the family secret, then. Tough on a good guy to inform a beloved that their first son might die because of a curse. Too many ways a discussion like that could go wrong.

“Tell Gabe that he’d like the house, and the area. Anything in the block is worth snapping up. And let him know my will is up to date.”

“You aren’t doing anything dangerous, are you?”

“I’m not participating in any competitions right now.” No sports at least, though an idea was forming in his head that he’d be going on a quest. Which would be the most dangerous thing he’d ever done in his life.