Читать книгу Enchanted Again - Robin D. Owens - Страница 9

Chapter 3

AMBER HAD BRIBED the brownies into attending the morning meeting with Conrad Tyne-Cymbler. The bribe had been chocolate cake and cocoa with whipped cream.

She needed all the information on curses and her gift that the small magical beings could give her.

The Mistweaver brownies had sensed that Tiro had arrived and had dropped in to check on her. Amber got the feeling that with Jenni gone, they were bored. And curious. Tiro appeared truculently curious himself.

The only difficult part was that the shared office space she rented was down a few blocks in the small neighborhood business district. Apparently only the cul-de-sac was completely magical, and though the brownies could go anywhere, the cul-de-sac was “protected” against evil. So the brownies would be on the watch for any adverse magics. Since time was growing short, Amber didn’t ask about that.

She wondered if Rafe Davail would be with his friend and decided that he would…no matter how stupid he thought the whole situation was. He struck her as a man who looked out for his friends.

After a chat with the receptionist, Amber confirmed that the shared conference room was free and set up there. The brownies perched—invisible, she thought, though she could see them—on a corner cabinet, full of chocolate cake. The huge mug of cocoa they shared was between them. It seemed to waver between opaque and invisible if she stared.

She put the remainder of the cake on the table along with plates and forks, and had urns of coffee and tea prepared on one of the credenzas.

The sound of a high-performance car stopping and parking came. She twitched a lace curtain to look out the front window.

Yes, there were the men. Wearing casual clothes today, high-end jeans and raw silk shirts, Conrad in dark teal under a black bomber jacket. Rafe wore a long-sleeved navy shirt under a black motorcycle jacket. Conrad Tyne-Cymbler looked worse than yesterday. Rafe Davail appeared fiercely determined.

Her pulse beat faster. If she let it, the sound of her own blood pumping would magnify her anxiety. She could always turn down Conrad.

The front door creaked open, and the receptionist greeted the men.

Amber’s hands began to tingle and as she watched a faint pinkish-purple haze rose from her fingertips. She froze.

Tiro scowled, gestured his long-fingered hand at the mist. “You are stup— Not smart to break curses.” Another sniff. “But the more you age, the sooner I can leave.”

The more she aged, the sooner she would die, for sure.

And two cursed ones had just entered the building.

Double whammy.

“The men are here.” Hartha, the female brownie, opened the door a crack, then stepped back and put her hands on the small bumps of her hips and her foot—shod in a pointed-toe shoe of purple suede—tapped. “I think humans would consider them attractive. Elves would think them very ugly.”

Amber poured out a mug of hot black coffee and took a sip. Lovely. Yes, she found both of them attractive. She could guess what elves looked like from myths and movies. No doubt most humans looked ugly in comparison. To her, the brownies appeared a lot like wet cats. Who knew if these brownies were considered comely or not? Tiro’s features were more squashed than Hartha’s or Pred’s. Was that generational, or due to place of origin?

“The dark-haired one is staring at me and blinking, but I do not think he sees me. His face is pale and strained.” Hartha sniffed and Amber couldn’t decide whether it was in punctuation or she was scenting him. “He has a fair amount of magic for a human, but has suppressed it until it erupts in pulses. His magic is golden and orange with a touch of pale pink-violet.” The little brownie woman turned her head to Amber as if to prompt a response.

Amber had no clue what the colors meant.

“Earth and fire and air,” Pred said and smiled under a whipped-cream moustache.

“Air is elf,” Amber murmured.

“Earth is dwarf, fire is djinn,” said Pred.

Tiro grunted. “We don’t need to teach the girl.”

“She gave us chocolate cake and hot chocolate with whipped cream and is making us chocolate pie,” Hartha said as Pred slurped his cocoa. “It is difficult for minor folk such as we to obtain chocolate. You’ve had more than your share.”

“Earth is dwarf and fire is djinn,” Amber repeated. “Djinn like a genie. My neighbor Jenni Weavers—you call her Jindesfarne Mistweaver—is good with fire. She must be djinn.”

“Jenni is one quarter djinn and one quarter air and half human,” Hartha said, still looking out the door.

Fascinating. Amber continued her line of reasoning, slid her gaze to Pred to watch for any reaction that her next words were right. “Elves and dwarves and djinn are…ah…not minor elementals.”

“Greater Lightfolk,” Pred said. “Dwarf, djinn, elf, mer.”

“Mer…mermaid…merfolk?” Amber asked.

“Yes.” Pred came over to stand with Hartha, stared through the crack. “The dark-haired one is looking at us and is uncomfortable. The blond man is leaning on the desk and flirting with the human woman.”

Trying to get information about Amber from the receptionist, no doubt. Since Amber had rented the office space for several years and the receptionist appreciated well-built and well-heeled men, Rafe was probably getting several earfuls.

Pred made faces, then giggled. “The dark one—”

“Conrad,” Amber supplied.

“Conrad can almost see us. Maybe.” Pred wiggled his nose, stuck out his tongue. “He has much, much human blood.”

Amber returned to learning mode. “Conrad has no, um, minor Lightfolk in his bloodline?”

Pred chuckled like gravel skittering down the sidewalk. “We are too small to mate with normal-size humans. Especially air and fire sprites. And you are ugly.”

Hartha hissed and hopped a full yard back from the door. “The other! The fair-haired one!”

“Rafe,” Amber corrected.

“He has turned toward us. He does not see us, but I feel his magic and his curse.”

“What?” asked Pred and Amber.

“Death curse.”

Amber shuddered. The thread of hope she’d held that she was wrong died. One of the main things the journal of her ancestress warned of was to never—never—attempt to lift a death curse.

She didn’t know what happened, but it would be really bad, probably kill her and everyone she was emotionally linked with.

Hartha continued to speak as she sidled away from the entrance and back to the far corner cabinet. “Rafe’s colors are white-violet and blue-green, gold with a tiny hint of orange.” She reached for the large mug, wrapped her long-fingered hands around it as if they were cold.

Pred’s eyes protruded and he gasped. “Four elements? Four!”

Amber had thought that was good. “That isn’t an asset?”

Hartha’s face was hidden as she drank from the hot chocolate mug. She set it down and her gaze sharpened. “He has great magic, but carries a major glyph of green sealing most of his power.”

The door opened and the bad magic enveloping the men expanded to hit Amber in a huge wave. She wanted to run. She glanced wildly at the brownies. Conrad was too desperate, Rafe too attractive. She’d made a bad mistake.

No way out. She had to be strong. She had to say “no” and mean it.

Tiro stared at her. His upper lip lifted in scary amusement. “How old is this fair-haired fellow called Rafe?”

Hartha lifted and dropped her shoulder. “Young. Not too much more than his third decade.”

“His uncursed life span could be sixty more human years.” Tiro rubbed his hands. “I will gain my independence much sooner than I thought. She will lift the curse and die.”

There was a terrible high-pitched buzz in the room that would drive Rafe crazy if he had to work here. The back of his neck prickled as if someone were watching him. He glanced out the main window, saw the Tesla and other parked cars, and no one on the street. The spot between his shoulder blades tingled—and that was his main warning signal.

He wanted out of the room, out of the building, hell, out of the States. He could be snowboarding in Vancouver. Nah, he was ready for spring. But somewhere else.

He wanted Conrad out of the place, too.

Amber was paler than yesterday, as if she’d had a shock. Not his problem.

Rafe shifted his shoulders, rubbed the back of his neck, and followed Conrad’s stare to a corner of the room that seemed to blur. No. Of course not.

Conrad swallowed, but then his mouth hung open. Rafe took a step and jostled him. No man should look so clueless in front of a threat. And despite her truly excellent figure showcased in a red knit dress, Amber Sarga was a threat.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t help you—”

Conrad choked and crumpled, panting. Rafe grabbed him and steered him toward one of the chairs that he half fell into.

Amber poured a cup of black coffee and put it on the table in front of him. Conrad plunked the mailing tube he was carrying onto the table. “I…brought…my…family…tree,” he panted.

“I can’t.” But Amber’s voice wavered. She looked at the strange blurry corner. Conrad rubbed his eyes and his temples, scrubbed his face. Rafe blinked to clear his vision. Nothing there.

“Please, we know you’re a curse breaker. I’m begging you, I need your help. If not for me, for my son.”

“What kind of curse is it?” Her voice was low and gravelly, full of satisfaction. Rafe shook his head. It hadn’t been her speaking.

Of course it had been.

“Like I said yesterday, in the Cymbler family, soon after we have a son, he disappears. We don’t meet him again until he is an adult. Shortly after that meeting, we die and it goes on and on and on and on and—”

Rafe put his hand on Conrad’s shoulder, squeezed it. “Drink your coffee.” He lifted his hand, moved to put himself between Conrad and Amber’s pitying gaze.

But she didn’t look as if she were pitying Conrad because of his delusional ramblings. She appeared terrified. No golden tan like Rafe had admired yesterday. She was unnaturally white.

Almost as if she believed in curses, too.

“I met m’ father. He told me of the curse.” Conrad hunched over the drink, lifted it trembling in his hands. Droplets of coffee dribbled down his cup, hit the table.

No, they didn’t. There was no wetness on the table.

There had to be. Rafe better get his eyes checked.

Conrad gulped from the mug. His hand found a paper napkin and he wiped his mouth, plunked his cup down and looked around Rafe to stare at Amber. “You know,” Conrad said quietly. “You know there are such things as curses, and you know how to break them.”

Amber stood, gazing at Conrad, still too pale. “You don’t know what you ask.”

Straightening, Conrad reached for the tube. “This is the Cymbler family tree. It’s five years out of date. Study it. You can see that what I said is true.” He glanced up at Rafe. “Rafe’s is there, too.” He jerked his head, indicating Rafe. “This is my friend, Rafe Davail. He’s cursed, too.”

Amber’s light pink lips moved. “I know.” Rafe didn’t actually hear the words.

“More coffee?” Conrad lifted his cup.

Amber moved to a side cabinet and reached toward a carafe. Rafe intercepted her. “I’d like some. I’ll do it.”

She stiffened and her body nearly brushed his. He could catch her scent and he recognized it, knew he’d never forget. Naturally it was the fragrance of crumbling amber. Dark. Musky. Dangerous.

Rafe poured himself a cup of coffee, stepped over and filled Conrad’s cup. Nope, not a drop of liquid on that table. He put the pitcher back.

Conrad drank, then cleared his throat. “I know there are rules to curses. Some sort of release or unbinding must be built into a major curse when it is invoked.” Conrad smiled but it wasn’t in amusement. He really believed this stuff.

Rafe strove not to.

Amber looked startled. She wet her lips. Color was coming back to her face, her lips were rosy now. “Yes?” she asked.

“The least you can do is follow my family tree back, see when the curse might have begun. I know you’re an excellent genealogist, can work back farther than others. I know you…have a special touch.”

Her whole body went stiff. It didn’t look good on her, she should always be supple. “I strive to give my clients satisfaction,” she said flatly.

“I’ve seen some of your reports,” Conrad said. “Incredible research and stories.” His eyes narrowed, and he drank more coffee. “Almost as if you were there.” His face went hard and Rafe was glad to see it. Conrad continued, “I’ll pay whatever you want for you to remove the curse on my son.”

“Conrad!” Rafe protested.

“And Rafe will pay whatever you want to remove the curse on me, even though he doesn’t believe in it.”

“I can’t do that,” Amber said.

“Then you look at my family tree and use your psychic gift to tune into the past and find out how I can break it.”

Rafe stared.

His cell rang and he pulled it from his pocket. “Ace Investigations.” He thumbed the speaker on.

“This is Herrera of Ace.” The prime investigator sounded tired. “We’ve found Marta Dimir and Dougie Tyne-Cymbler in Bakir Zagora.”

Conrad shot to his feet. Years dropped off him. “I’m outta here. I’ll be in Bakir Zagora by this evening.”

“Black Stream Hotel,” said Herrera.

“Wait!” Rafe said, blocking the door. Conrad shoved him away and ran through the lobby to the front door. Rafe knew he’d have to take the guy down to stop him.

“Rafe, take care of this business for me. Please.”

Rafe strode to catch up. “You can’t mean…”

Conrad grabbed Rafe’s shirt. “Look. I need all the help I can get.” He swallowed hard. “I feel like I’m in a war. I gotta go.”

“I understand that, but—”

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