“Wait,” I say. “You were sitting outside my door? How long have you been here?”
He checks his watch. “Couple hours maybe? I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Why are you . . .”
My gut freezes.
“Ani,” I whisper. “Something’s happened to Ani. She’s missing, isn’t she? She wasn’t answering my texts or calls and—”
He lifts huge hands to stop my babble. “If I thought they’d been kidnapped, I’d be at the police station, K. It’s just . . .” He lifts the coffee and bakery bag. “Can we step inside?”
I nod and open my door.
Chapter Six
As soon as we step into my apartment, Ellie comes running. Well, her form of running, which is moving slightly faster than a stroll. She sees Jonathan and stops short. Then she launches into a full-throated purr and begins rubbing against his legs.
As he bends to pet her, I start to warn him and then remember that isn’t necessary. This is Jonathan. His size might make grown men step aside, but animals—like small children—see right past that. A smile from Jonathan makes toddlers stop screaming. Ellie tolerates his ear scratches without even a raised warning paw.
I don’t invite Jonathan into the living room. It’s a miracle we’re not still out in the hallway with me yanking on his shirtfront, screaming “Tell me now!”
“They’re missing, aren’t they?” I say as he tries to hand me a morning bun. “Ani and Hope are missing. They must be. You drove all the way from Unstable in the middle of the night—”
“I’m concerned,” he says. “Yes, concerned enough that I couldn’t sleep. If I went to the police, though, they’d tell me to go home and chill.”
“What’s happened? I was texting yesterday and calling—”
He motions for me to lower the volume. “Cell service went out midday. It’s still out. I saw Ani early yesterday afternoon. I was supposed to come by for dinner and a board-game night, but there was an emergency town-council meeting to discuss, not coincidentally, the cell-service issue. I still expected to swing by and see Ani afterward, but the meeting went on forever. You know how it is.”
I do. One problem with having a town full of psychics is that you also have a town full of residents convinced that a closer cell tower will microwave their brains.
Jonathan continues, “The meeting ended just before midnight, and I swung by to see if Ani was still up. The house was dark. I went back to my place and got an hour of sleep before bolting awake. Something at your sisters’ place had been poking at me.”
“What?”
“Their car was gone.”
Our mom’s old car rarely leaves the driveway. Unstable is a walking town, and we live on the main street.
“I ran back to the house,” Jonathan says, “and found a note on the business entrance. It said they had an emergency job, and the shop would be closed for a day or two.”
It’s a plausible explanation. Other curse weavers call us in for urgent cases. Legend says we’re descended from the leader of the arae, which makes us stronger weavers. We also get calls from other magic workers who stumble over a cursed object.
“But Ani wouldn’t leave without telling you or me,” I say. “If she had an urgent call . . .”
When I don’t finish, Jonathan nods. “If that call came at night, she’d wait to tell us in the morning.”
“But she was supposed to see you last night. She’d find a way to let you know she’d be gone.”
He shrugs. “She must have forgotten.”
“Nothing is urgent enough for Ani to forget you’re coming over.”
“Well, then, she knew I’d see the car gone and read the note on the business door.”
I don’t like that answer. I really don’t. Ani is as conscientious as Jonathan. She’d have e-mailed a full explanation so he didn’t worry.
“This isn’t an urgent situation, K,” he says. “I just wanted to let you know. Now we’ll sit down, have our healthy breakfast and wait for Ani to wake up and text us from wherever she is.”
That resolution lasts about as long as my decision not to grab a ShareCar and drive to Unstable at dawn. Jonathan and I manage a few sips of coffee and two bites of our muffins. Then it’s 7:30, an hour past Ani’s morning alarm.
A new text goes unread. Two calls go unanswered. Same with my texts and calls to Hope, and Jonathan’s texts and calls to Ani. While it made sense that she didn’t get my texts at home, there’s no way her emergency just happened to take her to a cell-free zone. She’s in trouble.
By 7:50, I’m outside the door to Connolly’s office, with Jonathan downstairs, ready to intercede in case anything goes wrong. Connolly is the first person there, and as he steps off the elevator, he’s reading a newspaper. The financial section, not surprisingly. He’s so engrossed in it that he walks up to his office, reaches for the knob and nearly grabs me in a very inappropriate place.
Seeing where his hand is heading, he jerks back, paper rustling. In a blink, he recovers and nods. “Good morning, Ms. Bennett. Dare I hope your early arrival means you’re willing to hear my proposal?”
“No, but I am willing to hear what the hell you meant about my sisters last night. In fact, I’m going to insist on it.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re finally seeing reason.”
He folds the paper and then walks to his office with such nonchalance that my hands itch to grab him around the neck and shake him.
When he takes off his overcoat and begins to smooth it, I snap, “Are you trying to piss me off?”
“I am composing myself for what is obviously going to be an antagonistic conversation while wondering whether it would be rude to make a coffee before we talk.”
“God, you really are an asshole, aren’t you?”
He turns a cool gaze on me. “You’ve pounced on me as I come into work. Not only have I agreed to speak to you, but I’m acknowledging that coffee—which I desperately need right now—should probably wait. Now may I please hang up my—”
“My sisters are missing. They disappeared sometime yesterday. Likely around the time you offered me a job, and when I refused to hear you out, you said maybe they would do it instead.”
He pauses, as if processing my words. Then his brows rise. “Are you suggesting I kidnapped them?”
“I’m suggesting they are missing right after you mentioned going to them with this job. And when I said I’d warn them first, you seemed very unconcerned.”
“Because I—” He glances toward the front door. “May we speak somewhere else, please? Perhaps in your showroom? My staff will arrive at any moment.”
I march to the reception desk, scribble something onto a large sticky note and slap it on the front door. Connolly walks over to read it.
“Fumigation?” He shakes his head. “Please hand me that marker and a new piece of paper. I’ll simply ask them to stay out—”
“Fumigation or biological contamination,” I say. “Your choice.”
He sighs. “May we at least adjourn to the staff room where I might make a coffee? I had a very long night, and I have a feeling you’ll need me to be more coherent than I can manage right now.”
I haven’t taken a close look at him, being too freaked out about my sisters. Now I notice the purple underscoring his eyes and the first hint of lines at his mouth. Two bright red acne-like spots are, on closer inspection, shaving nicks. His freckles, barely visible yesterday, weave a connect-the-dots pattern across his nose and cheekbones.
While Connolly looks exhausted, he also looks far more human than he did yesterday. Like an actual person rather than an automaton programmed to piss me off.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Get your damned coffee.”
His shoulders sag in visible relief. “Thank you.”
I follow him into the staff room, which is just as ice cold—in decor and temperature—as the rest of the office suite. That reminds me that he’d been considerate enough to plan a more comfortable staff room,
and some of my own chill thaws . . . until I remember that was a ruse. A lie to trick and test me.
Connolly walks to the coffee maker, one of those expensive espresso jobs. At the click of a button, it begins grinding beans for a single serving.
“Would you like one?” he asks, raising his voice to be heard over the whirring.
“No, what I’d like is to talk about my missing sisters. You don’t seem surprised that they’re gone.”
He fusses with the machine. “If you’d let me explain last night—”
“Don’t condescend to me, Connolly. I had every reason to get the hell out of here after you trapped me. Do you know what happened to my sisters?”
“If you’re asking whether I personally kidnapped them—”
“Of course, you didn’t. Guys like you don’t do your own dirty work.”
“True.” His tone stays infuriatingly calm. “I hire people to perform tasks outside my area of expertise. As I tried to hire you last night.” He lifts the mug, takes a sip and exhales in satisfaction. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup?”
I unclench my teeth enough to say, “I’d like to have this conversation. Start talking. Now. Or else . . .”
I open my purse.
“Let me guess,” he says. “You brought your Magic 8 Ball.”
That is what I was about to pull out, but when he glances into my purse, he goes still.
“Is that . . . a gun?” he says.
I flip out the tiny derringer. “Cute, huh? It was a going-away gift from my sister’s friend. To keep me safe in the big, bad city.”
When I glance up, Connolly has inched back.
“Really? This scares you?” I wave the gun. “Believe me, my curse bomb is way worse. Look how tiny this thing is. It’d barely put a hole in you.”
“That gun is quite capable of killing someone.”
“Is it? Huh. Then maybe we should try this again.” I aim the derringer at him. “Do you know where my sisters are?”
He swallows and then visibly pulls himself together, his gaze wrenching from the gun barrel and lifting to meet mine. When he speaks, the words come slow and careful, so I cannot misunderstand them.
“I did not kidnap them, and I don’t know who did. However, I believe I know why they were taken. That’s what I was going to discuss with you.”
“When? After you drank your whole damned coffee? These are my sisters we’re talking about.”
“I understand that, and I apologize if it seemed I wasn’t taking this seriously. I am.”
“Good.” I lift the gun. “So where are my sisters?”
“I just told you. I don’t have them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Really, really sure?”
“Yes. Now please lower the—”
I pull the trigger. A spot of red explodes on the wall behind Connolly. He stumbles against the coffee maker and stares down at his chest.
“I aimed beside you,” I say.
He squints at the bright red spot on the wall, far too crimson to be blood.
“Jinx,” I say, twirling the fake gun. “It’s a nice piece, though. Specially made just for me. So much fun in paintball. Do you play?”
Connolly’s expression suggests he really wishes he had a gun right now. And not a fake one.
“Did you really think anyone would buy me a real gun?” I say. “Hell, I wouldn’t buy me one. But thank you for confirming that you don’t have my sisters. Now let’s talk about who does.”
“I am not talking to you about anything, Ms. Bennett. You just—”
“Shot beside you with a fake bullet? I wouldn’t have pulled out the gun if you hadn’t noticed it in my purse. At that point, if I didn’t threaten you with it, you wouldn’t have taken me seriously. My sisters are missing. I’ll keep saying that until you get it.”
“I do get it. I apologize if I seemed to be stalling. I was collecting myself and preparing for what is likely to be a long conversation.”
“Ready now?”
“I am.”
“Good. Get yourself another coffee, and we’ll talk in your office.”
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure I can’t make you a coffee?” Connolly asks as we walk into his office.
“Yeah, no. Weirdly, not in the mood.”
He pauses, cup to his lips, and then lowers it and nods. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”
I settle myself into the visitor’s chair, fussing more than necessary so he doesn’t see my expression. I don’t know what to make of Aiden Connolly. I’ve called him an asshole more than once. Yesterday morning, though, my assessment was “kind of an asshole,” and I think that’s more accurate. In many ways, he’s your stereotypical successful young businessman. Condescending and overconfident to the point of arrogance. Yet whenever he’s about to tip over into full asshole-mode, he has the grace to admit he’s overstepped. It’s as if his brain doesn’t process “how would this make someone feel?” as fast as mine does, and his emotional wiring needs an extra surge to leap the gap between self-concern and empathy.
Or maybe he’s just a clever asshole who knows his target isn’t going to put up with that bullshit, so he’s dialing it back and feigning contrition.
As I settle in, struggling to mask my confusion, I text Jonathan. I tell him all is well, and I’m certain Connolly doesn’t have Ani and Hope because he stuck to his story even when I held him at gunpoint. Jonathan pops back a thumbs-up, as if there is nothing the least bit alarming in that statement.
As I lower my phone, Connolly says, “First, are you absolutely certain your sisters are missing?”
“I’m certain they aren’t home. I’m also certain that they aren’t answering texts, calls or e-mails. Is it possible I’m overreacting? Sure. So you can skip that part.”
“I wasn’t going to suggest that. If this is unusual behavior for them, then yes, I believe there’s a very good chance they’ve been taken.”
“Because you knew they were in danger. Yet you failed to mention that last night.”
He steeples his fingers on the desktop. “If you’d listened to my job offer—”
At a look from me, his hands shoot up. “That was uncalled for. I apologize. If I actually thought they were in danger, I would have warned you.”
“You wanted to hire me for a job. Presumably, unweaving a curse. If my sisters have been kidnapped, and you think it’s connected, that’s because there are other parties involved. You’re working for someone who needs an object uncursed.”
Connolly fixes me with a cool look. “I don’t hire myself out like a common laborer, Ms. Bennett.”
“Ah, right. Common laborer. That’d be me, right? The chick you were trying to hire.”
He hesitates. Then he picks up a silver pen, fidgeting with it before realizing what he’s doing and setting it back down.
“You have a knack for twisting words and intentions, Ms. Bennett.”
“Not sure how else I could have interpreted that one. What you really mean is that I have a knack for calling you out when you’re being a dick. People don’t generally do that to you, do they? At least, not people you consider common laborers.”
He lifts the pen again. “Shall I write ‘I apologize for being a dick’ and just hold it up at regular intervals so we can move this conversation along?”
I can’t help smiling a little at that. “Or you could try not being a dick.”
“Genetically impossible. If you ever meet my parents, you’ll understand. No one has hired me. I’m one of several people pursuing an object. The most famous cursed object in history.”
“And you accuse me of being dramatic.”
He opens a desk drawer, withdraws a folded newspaper and extends it. As I take the paper, I realize it’s actually a supermarket tabloid. Below the fold is a photograph of a woman in a coffin. She’s about my age, and even post-embalming, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. According to the he
adline, the dead woman—one Josephine Hill-Cabot—is . . .
“Ninety-seven?” I say.
“Exactly,” Connolly says smugly.
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, Connolly, but this is a tabloid. It also has articles on . . .” I flip pages. “Hillary Clinton’s alien love child and a man whose sneeze blew off all his wife’s hair.”
Connolly reaches into the drawer for another folded paper. This one is the New York Times, with a much smaller article stating that the wealthy Hill-Cabot clan is embroiled in an inheritance scandal after claiming that a deceased woman in her twenties was their reclusive matriarch, Josephine. The article also notes that DNA results confirm their bizarre story, and so police are now investigating the possibility of a larger scam involving medical personnel.
“Damn,” I say. “Huh. But eternal youth wouldn’t be a curse, not unless . . .”
My head shoots up. “The Necklace of Harmonia?”
Connolly’s lips twitch. “The most famous cursed object in history. Or is that being overdramatic?”
My attention snaps back to the articles, devouring the words now.
He continues, “I’m not sure how much you know about the necklace and the mythology surrounding it.”
I point at my face.
“Yes,” he says. “It’s Greek myth, and your mother was Greek. Your father partly Greek, too, if I’m correct. That doesn’t mean you know the mythology.”
“I didn’t mean my cultural background,” I say. “I mean what I am. A curse weaver. The living embodiment of Greek myth. So yeah, I know all about the Necklace of Harmonia. Short version: the wearer is blessed with eternal youth and beauty but cursed with great misfortune. Some say it also confers wealth, but others argue the eternal youth and beauty help amass wealth. Either way, you’ll be young and healthy and rich . . . and your life will suck in every possible way.”
“As it did for Josephine Hill-Cabot. Three marriages. All three husbands died, all in tragic accidents.”
Cursed Luck, Book 1 Page 4