Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Are you going to pretend you aren’t after the necklace?”

  He meets her gaze. “Are you?”

  “I asked you first.”

  “I wouldn’t insult you by requesting information that would conflict with your business interests,” he says. “I respect you too much for that.”

  “You mean you respect my ability to crush you under my heel.”

  “That, too.” He nods toward the door. “May we step inside and discuss this?”

  “Are you going after the necklace, Aiden?”

  “Right now, I’m more concerned about obtaining information on other potential bidders because one of them kidnapped Kennedy’s sisters.”

  She glances sharply at me. “What?”

  “Her older sister is fine,” Connolly continues. “The youngest is still being held to uncurse the necklace. I’ve promised to help Kennedy resolve that in return for her help with the necklace, which I do not particularly want, but I’m obligated to obtain in payment of a debt. If that obligation was waived and Kennedy’s sister was freed, it would remove two buyers from the auction, which would help you . . . if you wanted it.”

  Well, that’s definitely more than we planned to admit. I try to catch his eye, but he’s studiously avoiding my gaze.

  “Come inside,” Ms. Apsley says. “I had dinner prepared, and I have a feeling it’ll go cold by the time I get this entire story.” She walks over to Connolly. “Which I will get, correct? The entire and true story?”

  “As much of it as I’m able and willing to tell.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She extends a hand to me, takes one of us on each arm and heads for the door.

  Vanessa’s house—she’s already said “call me Vanessa”—is as breathtaking as the grounds. Sumptuous is the word I’d use, a level of luxury that falls just short of decadent and is all the better for it.

  The estate grounds had invited me to wander, to explore, to enjoy and unwind, and her house does the same. We pass at least three spots where I long to curl up with a book and at least four bookcases that I long to pillage for that very purpose. There’s a window seat where the sun stretches over a pile of pillows. A chaise longue with a wicker side table begging to hold your cup of tea. A circular couch with deep cushions and an artfully crumpled angora blanket.

  Every piece of furniture is perfect . . . and every piece would set me back several months’ rent. I’d fallen into another misconception earlier, when Connolly said Vanessa was one of the top names in the gray market. I expected her to be well-off, but not as wealthy as those in the black market. Surely you can make more money dabbling in a criminal enterprise. Which is bullshit. Drug kingpins don’t automatically have more money than CEOs. To expect that underestimates how much talent goes into a job. Clearly, Vanessa has that in spades, from both her business acumen and her magical ability.

  As for her ability, it’s dream shaping. It’s a strange and rare power that I don’t fully understand, and Connolly admitted he doesn’t, either. We have a dream shaper in Unstable, but his family uses their powers for sleep manipulation, and they’ve lost any other skills through time and disuse. In short, he can grant sound sleep and banish nightmares, and that may sound like a small thing, but for someone with insomnia or PTSD, a good night’s sleep is the stuff of, well, dreams. Maybe Vanessa has discovered a way to do that on a larger commercial scale.

  Dinner is served by two young men who seem to have given up lucrative modeling careers to work for Vanessa. Not that she notices their physical attractions. It’s as if they’re just two more works of art decorating her home.

  No, that isn’t fair. She treats them as objects with genuine warmth and respect. They’re neither pieces of furniture nor pieces of ass. Just young men who bring beauty to her home.

  We eat in a proper Italian courtyard—an open-air room in the middle of the house. It’s decorated with so much lush greenery, it’s like dining al fresco in a tropical paradise.

  The food is perfect for the setting, all plates of light bites with plenty of fish and vegetables, very Mediterranean. It’s a meal made for talking over. Put a few choice items on your plate and nibble while chatting, then take a few more, and keep going into the night as wine and water glasses seem to refill themselves.

  Connolly holds back unnecessary details while giving Vanessa a full picture of the situation. My sisters were kidnapped, and one was returned. The other is being held to unweave the necklace’s curse. To secure her safe return, I’m supposed to pretend to work with Connolly and then flake out at the last moment. Connolly, however, can’t agree to that because another buyer demands the necklace to repay his brother’s debt.

  I’d rather leave out the part where I’m only pretending to work for Connolly. That’s admitting that I might double-cross Hope’s captors. Yet it’s also the supporting beam to this story. Otherwise, I should stay a million miles from him as competition for the necklace.

  If Connolly trusts Vanessa with this, then I must, too.

  “Who holds your brother’s debt?” she asks when Connolly finishes.

  He hesitates. “I’d rather not say.”

  “I noticed. Which is why I’m asking.”

  Connolly sips his wine.

  Vanessa continues, “You’re hoping I can help you find Hope Bennett’s captor. Then you’ll free her, which will also free you to fulfill your end of the bargain. However, even if we identify who has Hope, freeing her will be risky.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “We can use the necklace either to free Hope or to relieve Rian’s debt. These two things aren’t equal. My sister is a hostage. Your brother is not, correct?”

  “Our parents have him in a safe house in Europe.”

  “Then my sister’s situation is the more urgent one. If Vanessa can help with your brother’s case instead . . .” I peer at him. “Unless there’s a reason you don’t want that. Something you aren’t telling me?”

  “No.” He meets my gaze so I can see the sincerity there. “The story is as I told it, and you have my word on that. I just don’t feel free to”—he glances at Vanessa—“share information that isn’t mine to share.”

  “I commend your familial loyalty, Aiden,” she says. “But Kennedy is right. Freeing a debt is easier and safer than freeing a person. Whatever you tell me is private. You’ll have noticed that my boys are timing their appearances perfectly. They stay in the kitchen until I signal for service. As much as I trust them, they shouldn’t overhear your secrets. I didn’t get where I am by treating my associates cavalierly.”

  “The person holding Rian’s debt is Havoc.”

  “Havoc?”

  “It’s obviously an alias.”

  “I’m not remarking on the nom de guerre. My surprise reflects incredulity that your brother was fool enough to get involved with her. Apparently, you inherited his allotment of intelligence and common sense.”

  Connolly stiffens. “Rian and I are different, yes, but—”

  “Oh, put your back down, Aiden. The point is that Havoc is trouble. An overly ambitious capo masquerading as a godfather.”

  I arch my brows.

  She sighs. “Have you never seen mafia movies, child? A godfather is the head of a crime family. A capo is a lieutenant in charge of a unit of foot soldiers. Havoc worked in security for a good friend of mine. He had to let her go, and she decided to enter the game as an independent player, which has been nothing but headaches for everyone. Let’s just say she lives up to her name.”

  “Can we pay off the debt another way?” I ask.

  Vanessa shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. Havoc cares about the necklace because we care about it. I may know ways to deal with that, though. If I decide there’s something in this for me.”

  “The necklace.”

  She waves her hand. “I have no need of jewels.”

  She’s right in a very literal sense. She isn’t even wearing earrings. There’s little need to accessorize when no one’s going to look bey
ond your personal beauty.

  That does leave one question, though . . .

  “Erin Concord,” Connolly says, at a look from me.

  Vanessa’s brow furrows. “Hmm?”

  “Someone set up an appointment with Kennedy. Someone named Erin Concord. I thought it might be you.”

  “Erin . . . Concord?”

  “Erin for Eris,” I say. “Goddess of discord. Concord as another name for—”

  “Harmonia,” she says, her face twisting in distaste. “That suggests you narrowly avoided a run-in with Havoc yourself. I’ve heard her use variations on that name.”

  “Eris, discord, havoc,” I murmur. “Concord as an allusion to the necklace.”

  “Yes, Havoc tries very hard to be clever and usually fails.”

  “So Havoc tried to speak to me, possibly to hire me to uncurse the necklace once Aiden bought it.”

  “Someone also broke into Kennedy’s shop,” Connolly says.

  “And did a whole lotta damage,” I say, trying not to remember the scene.

  Her violet eyes widen. “That certainly wasn’t me. I’ve stayed out of the auction. Feel free to confirm that in any way you like.”

  “What do you want then?” I ask. “In return for your help.”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  Connolly shakes his head. “We need a price up front.”

  She smiles. “Clever boy. Yes, never take a favor on loan. I meant that I’m not certain I can help, but I’ll think on it, and if I can, you will know my price in the morning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  We continue to eat and talk. Vanessa wants more information on Hope’s captor—everything we can give her. The data will help her narrow the list of suspects, should she decide to help.

  It’s dark by the time the servers bring coffee and dessert trays. We’re still picking at dinner and discussing the kidnapping. When we’re ready to dive into dessert, Vanessa surveys the table and then excuses herself.

  “All the more for us,” I murmur after she’s gone.

  I pick up a plate of silver-dollar-sized tiramisu. When I hold it out, Connolly lifts his hand.

  “None for me, thank you,” he says.

  “But it’s tiramisu. Teeny-tiny, ninety-nine-percent guilt-free tiramisu. And there’s zuppa inglese and galaktoboureko, too. Small enough to try some of each.”

  “They’re all yours. I’ve had more sugar today than I’ve consumed in weeks.”

  “I can tell. You’re chattering nonstop, running around, barely able to sit still. Clearly, you have a problem.”

  “That sounds like sarcasm.”

  “If there’s any doubt, I’m not doing it right.” I hold up the plate between us. “You do realize that you’re actually reminding me of how many sweets I’ve had and suggesting I shouldn’t have more, either.”

  “I said nothing of the sort.”

  “It’s implied.” I sigh and put the plate down. “I can take a hint. As delicious as these little treats look, if you have the willpower to resist, I should, too.”

  He raises a brow. “I thought you said they were guilt free.” He takes a tiramisu. “Better?”

  “If you only want one. Because ultimately, it’s about you, and if you can look me in the eye and tell me you only want one—or none—then I’ll stop harassing you. However, if you’d really like two, or even three, then I feel obligated to remind you that life is short and if the rest of dinner is any indication, these are going to be so worth it.”

  He takes one tiramisu and one galaktoboureko and puts them on his plate. “Better now?”

  I wait until he takes a bite of the tiramisu. “Much.”

  “You are a terrible influence.”

  “No, I’m an excellent influence. I’m about to make your evening ten times better.”

  Shoes squeak, and we look up to see Vanessa standing in the doorway, one brow arched.

  “Well, that was an interesting line to walk in on. Should I go out again?”

  I smile and shake my head. “I was talking about dessert. Convincing Aiden to indulge.”

  “You’re wasting your time. That’s why I brought this.” She lifts a plate of fruit. “Aiden doesn’t eat . . .”

  She stops as she sees the half-eaten mini tiramisu in his hand. “Well, well. I’ve been trying to tempt him for two years now, and I’ve made no headway at all.” Her gaze rests on me. “Evidently, my sweets were not to his taste.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure what sweets Aiden actually does like. I haven’t had time to bake him any, and I don’t plan to. My sister has been kidnapped. I appreciate any help I can get in finding her, but I’m not offering cookies for the reward. Nor do I think he’d take them if I did.”

  Connolly frowns and then shakes his head, deciding to ignore my rambling in favor of polishing off the tiramisu.

  Vanessa watches me for a moment, assessing. Then she says, “Understandable. However, if you did decide to bake for him, I wouldn’t object. The boy is in desperate need of cookies, wherever they come from.”

  I choke at that. Connolly hands me a glass of water, still oblivious. Vanessa smiles, pulls out her chair, and sits.

  “Tell me more about this issue with Havoc, Aiden.”

  By the time we finish dinner, it’s after ten. Vanessa needs to make some calls and check some files before giving us her answer in the morning. Until then, we are her guests.

  I’d rather stay at a hotel. I don’t know Vanessa well enough for a sleepover. But Connolly isn’t fazed by it, and so again, I have to trust his judgment.

  I thought I knew a lot about the magical world, being from a town and a family that accepts it as a fact of life. Yet when I talk about “the community,” I mean a loose network of others with abilities. A social-support system. This corner of it is one I’ve only heard about in whisper and rumor and warning.

  I’m out of my depth here and becoming more aware of that with each passing hour. Connolly is my bridge to that world, and I’m relying on him to provide safe passage. Is that wrong? Naive? Maybe. I only know that Hope is being held hostage in this part of our world, and I don’t have anyone else to take me into it.

  I’m not sure I could even make it to a hotel. I woke up at six this morning, worrying about my sisters. That seems like a week ago. Now I’ve eaten too much, had more wine than usual, and I’m afraid if I even lower my butt onto one of Vanessa’s impossibly comfortable sofas, I’m not getting up again until morning.

  I’ve also been abandoned by my hosts. Understandably. Vanessa is chasing answers for us, and Connolly has slipped off to clear his schedule for tomorrow. I’d already canceled this week’s appointments—due to the break-in—and I’m trying very hard not to think about how long it might be until I can reopen.

  What I haven’t done is report the break-in to the police, which means I won’t have paperwork for the insurance company. Connolly has assured me he’ll look after all that . . . which only makes me worry even more that I’m relying on him too much.

  My mood is off. Having Connolly disappear to tend to business only reminds me that I’m not in his league, career-wise. Ani would point out his background and the advantages it gives him. That feels like an excuse. Yet do I want to compete at his level? Live a life blinkered by work and ambition?

  Here lies the core of my dissatisfaction these days. An inner drive to do more, be more, warring against a voice that says I’m doing just fine, that I was doing fine even before I left Unstable. Being home today only reminded me of how much I miss it. I left because I felt as if I should. I wanted my own business, and somehow that got tangled up with needing to move away from my family and . . .

  Damn, I’m in a mood.

  I pop off a text to Ani. We’ve been back-and-forthing all evening. She wants to be sure I’m safe, and I want to know whether they have any new leads. They don’t.

  I say good night to Ani and then send a text to Connolly before heading off to bed. I find my room ready. Not
surprising. Vanessa strikes me as the sort who’s always ready to throw open her door to guests.

  My bedroom comes with an en-suite bath and a sunken tub that has me reconsidering my straight-to-bed plans. Yet as I picture myself sinking into that tub, I also see myself drifting to sleep and drowning. So, maybe not. Get to bed early. Rise early. Take a walk through the gardens and enjoy a hot bath before breakfast.

  It isn’t until I start to shrug off my jeans that I realize I don’t have nightwear. Or clothing for tomorrow. Connolly has a bag in his trunk for emergency business trips, and I’d been in Unstable, where I could have grabbed supplies from home. I’m kicking myself for not doing that when I spot a nightgown folded on the dresser. As I lift it, a soft rap comes at the door.

  “Yes?” I say, tugging my jeans back on.

  “It’s Aiden.”

  I hurry over and throw open the door. The hall lights are off, casting Connolly half into shadow.

  “I thought I heard you in here,” he says. “My business took longer than expected. Are you busy?”

  “Just settling in.”

  A frown. “For the night?”

  “I thought I’d turn in early. I texted you.”

  “Ah. I didn’t see it. I will leave you to your evening, then.”

  It’s only as he steps back that I see he holds a glass in each hand, wine shimmering in the half light.

  “Oh,” I say, gesturing at the wine as I think of something to say.

  “You’ve probably had enough of this. I just thought if you were still up and wanted to talk . . . But you aren’t, so . . .” He lowers the glasses to his side, out of sight. “I will see you in the morning.”

  “If you wanted to talk about something . . .”

  “No, no. I just thought you might wish to discuss the situation.”

  Disappointment flutters through me. We’ve been talking about “the situation” all day, and more will only remind me that we aren’t any closer to getting my sister back.

  If he’d just wanted to talk, though? About . . . I don’t know. Life? Thoughts? Random musings? Spend a bit of time unwinding and sipping that wine and talking about anything other than what’s happening right now. I’m even tempted to ask about actuarial science.