Cursed Luck, Book 1

by Kelley Armstrong

  She continues, “You figured it out, and he didn’t. He thought this little encounter was his dream, and his alone, and when he realized otherwise, you caught him off guard.”

  “So he lied. Lied and embarrassed me to save himself any embarrassment.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll find a way to repay him. For now, though . . .”

  She waves at the shell, where I’m back in bed, sleeping. Then I seem to wake up, inside another dream, the one with the intruder. When I tense, Vanessa says, “Would you like to step away while I watch this?”

  “I . . .” I take a deep breath. “I didn’t fight, okay? Not until the end. He hit me, and I just froze.”

  “All right.”

  “Just . . . don’t . . .” Another deep breath. “I always thought that if something like that happened, I’d fight. But I just . . . I’ve never been hit. I couldn’t believe it was happening.”

  “You’re asking me not to judge you.”

  I nod.

  There’s silence. When she speaks, her words are hard. “Where did women get the idea that there’s something wrong with them if they don’t fight when a man hits them? If they’re paralyzed with shock and disbelief? If they take time to react? Or if they decide not to react—that it’s best to just wait it out?”

  “Every movie where a woman gets attacked, and the audience dismisses her if she doesn’t fight back.”

  “It’s not just movies. It’s every judge and defense attorney and jury member who wonders why she didn’t fight. Unless she kills him. Then they wonder why she fought so hard.” She meets my eyes. “Whatever you did here was the right thing, Kennedy. I’m just very, very sorry.”

  She glances at the screen, where not-Connolly has me by the upper arms. She smacks the water, hard enough to make half of it spill over the sides, and the picture disappears.

  “That wasn’t me,” she says. “That wasn’t you, either—not your mistrust of Aiden reshaping my dream prompts into a nightmare.”

  She starts the replay again and fast-forwards to a point where I’m smiling at Connolly. “See this? The image quality is perfect.”

  I nod.

  She fast-forwards to another point, where I’m running from not-Connolly. I see the difference. Both segments were in half darkness, but the first one is crystal clear, the second clouded and shadowed, figures blurring and wavering.

  “This one is being dream shaped,” she says. “Not by me, though. It’s like a feed picking up an external signal. Mine comes through clear. The other doesn’t.”

  “The other being sent by a second dream shaper?”

  Her fingers tap the water, stopping and then dismissing the replay. “I would say yes, but that seems implausible. Or perhaps I simply have too high an opinion of my security and my reputation. No one got into this house last night. Could they get on the grounds, though? Close enough to your room to send their own dream and interfere with mine? The interfering part is harder to believe, though again, that may be my ego speaking.”

  She sits and thinks for a moment. “My dream, though, had been canceled by your actions. Yours and Aiden’s.”

  “Please note that the fact I’m not complaining about this doesn’t mean I’m not seriously pissed off. And weirded out. And a whole lot of other things.”

  Those violet eyes rise to mine. “Hmm?”

  “You orchestrated sex, Vanessa. Between two parties who were not in a mental state to give their consent. I know it wasn’t real sex. But still . . .”

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t orchestrate anything. As I said, I simply set events in motion. I gave the push. You two failed to follow through in the correct direction.”

  “It was the correct direction for us.”

  “So you say. Oh, don’t give me that look. This is why I wouldn’t shape more than the setting. Whatever happens between you must be your choice.”

  I pull out a chair. “While we’ve detoured to address concerns, I have one with you pushing Aiden in my direction. You hinted at it last night. But unless I’m sorely mistaken, you’d have been quite happy if he knocked on your door last night. Which makes me question you sending him to mine.”

  “Only because you’re young and terribly American, with terribly American sensibilities.”

  I arch a brow.

  “Yes,” she says. “I find Aiden attractive. I would have happily taken him to my bed. For a night. Or a weekend. Even several weekends. But as fond as I am of attractive men—and sex with attractive men—I’m even more fond of matchmaking. Aiden is comfortable with you, and for him, that’s rare. You make an adorable couple.”

  “Right now we’re—”

  “Yes, yes, busy saving hapless siblings. I understand that. Which is why last night’s push was about more than any matchmaking. I wanted to confirm your stories before I allowed you into my confidences.”

  “As for this . . .” She glances at the bowl. “My dream shaping ended when Aiden left and you returned to bed. That gave another dream shaper an opening. We’ll need to check the security cameras.”

  She rises.

  I stay seated. “First, if I’m going to stay, I have to understand what’s going on. You said you need to trust us. With what?”

  She’s silent for a moment. Then she calls, “Aiden? Come in, please. Time for a chat.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Vanessa lied when she said she didn’t want the Necklace of Harmonia. That’s no surprise. I’d planned to spend my morning walk with Connolly discussing the possibility that she’d use our information to scoop the necklace from under our noses.

  So why test our trustworthiness? Why not just send us on our way with a “Sorry, can’t help”?

  Why the secrecy at all? She’s a major player in this market. Won’t it be assumed she wants the necklace? Wouldn’t it seem odd if she claimed she didn’t?

  We don’t get answers for the last part. Oh, she skates around with excuses. Everyone knows she isn’t keen on jewelry, so she’d planned to stay out of the fray, and then hop in and outbid them.

  What about the first part then? Why not just send us off? She knows we aren’t going to back out of the auction. We can’t with what’s at stake.

  Here’s where we do get an answer. She expects both of us to back out of the auction and help her get the necklace. But first, she’ll help us free Hope and Rian. Once they’re safe, then we’ll repay the debt.

  As for how we’ll help her, I figured she’d want me to uncurse the necklace. She doesn’t. In fact, she doesn’t want it uncursed at all.

  “You’re going to accept the curse?” I say. “Take it on yourself? Eternal misfortune in return for eternal beauty? I . . . don’t know if you’ve seen a mirror lately, but I don’t think you’re going to ever have a problem with that last bit. Is it the youth you want?”

  “I’m not taking on the curse. I’m destroying the necklace.”

  I glance at Connolly, who frowns.

  “I could try to uncurse it for you,” I say. “I mean, if it’s beyond my skill, then I’d appreciate not being forced to do it, but I could try. At least then you’d have the necklace, which is both gorgeous and valuable.”

  “I don’t want to own it. I don’t want to sell it. I want it to not exist.”

  Connolly and I exchange a look.

  “Is that a problem?” she says. “Does it matter what I do with it as long as your siblings are safe?”

  We both admit that it doesn’t matter.

  “Then let’s leave it at that,” she says. “I will not need Kennedy’s curse-weaving skills.”

  “Then what are we doing for you?” I say. “Besides Aiden bowing out of the auction?”

  “You two are going to be my ticket in. I’ve told the other contenders I don’t want the necklace. That means I need a back door. Everyone knows I’m fond of Aiden. So they will understand if I’ve agreed to help him in return for access to his skills.”

  I choke on a snort.

  “Luck-workin
g skills,” she says, with a mock glare at me as Connolly furrows his brow, oblivious. “However, if they do think something else?” She shrugs. “Better they believe I’m pursuing that than the necklace.”

  “Kennedy and I will discuss your proposal,” Connolly says.

  She looks at him. “I’m offering to get your brother out from under his debt and Kennedy’s sister away from a kidnapper. In return, I want nothing more than for you to pretend I’m helping you win the auction. I’m not sure what there is to discuss.”

  “Whether we trust you.” He pauses. “I don’t suppose you know of a way we can test that. A dream sequence perhaps?”

  Vanessa looks affronted, as if she can’t believe he’s still bringing that up. It was an entire hour ago. Ancient history.

  “All right,” she says finally. “You and Kennedy can take some time to discuss it. But first, allow me to sweeten the pot. There’s a showing tonight. I can get you in.”

  “A showing of the necklace?”

  “Yes. A private party. Black tie. The Hill-Cabots are sparing no expense to woo the buyers.”

  Connolly frowns. “When did the invitations go out?”

  Silence.

  I look at him. “Apparently, you aren’t on the guest list.”

  “I’ll try not to take that personally,” he murmurs.

  “They decided you weren’t worthy. That’s the definition of personal.”

  He meets my grin with a sour look. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” I look at Vanessa. “That’s it, though, right? They’re the lions fighting over a kill. To them, Aiden is only a circling jackal, hoping to snatch a bite.”

  “Circling jackal,” he murmurs. “You aren’t salving my ego at all here, Kennedy.”

  “Does it need salving?”

  His lips twitch. “No, it does not. And you’re right. This is where I wanted to be. My ego might prefer that I was considered a serious threat. My business sense knows this is better.”

  “It is,” Vanessa says.

  “So why is Aiden being targeted if he’s not taken seriously as a contender?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

  “Kennedy and I will discuss your proposal.” He turns toward the door. “I don’t suppose I could get the coffee now?”

  She sighs, flutters her hands and heads indoors.

  I have never wanted to be rich. Oh, sure, I’d take a quarter-million-dollar inheritance from some long-forgotten stranger I helped with an uncursing. I’d stick it into the bank and never again have my gut seize up when I see a bill in my inbox. That’s my idea of heaven. Actually “wealthy,” though? In the way Connolly grew up? I can’t see that it would make my life significantly better.

  I don’t understand the appeal of high fashion or flashy jewels. My crowd only wears designer clothes when they can get a bargain and then tell everyone how little they paid for them. They buy fake jewelry and happily admit it’s fake. If I bought a car like Connolly’s, my friends would only be impressed if I told them I got it at auction for a fraction of retail and then spent fifty bucks cleaning that dead-thing smell from inside.

  So no, I’ve never seen the appeal of buckets of money . . . until I walked into Vanessa’s house and realized if I did have obscene amounts of cash, this is what I would spend it on. Indulgent luxury. Soft beds and sunken tubs. Plush furniture and candle-lit courtyards. Also, food. Not quantities of food, but quality and variety, a cornucopia at my fingertips.

  Vanessa doesn’t bring Connolly a brewed cup of coffee and a carton of flavored creamer. She returns with a breakfast spread. Two pots of fresh-ground coffee, both single origin, one African and one South American. Cream. Three kinds of sugar, none of them in little packets. Steamed milk. Cocoa. Cinnamon. A plate of homemade pastries. A platter of fruit with everything from strawberries to mangos to pomegranates.

  It’s two in the morning, and Vanessa slides all this on the table as if it was waiting in the kitchen, her breakfast prepared by last night’s staff. Imagine waking up to that every morning. Yep, I might not have batted an eye at Connolly’s car or custom suits, but this? I would totally take this.

  Connolly gets halfway through his first cup of coffee before he speaks. While I don’t tease him about the pastries, he still takes one of the miniature muffins and a small plate of fruit. I make myself a coffee with steamed milk and a sprinkle of cocoa and then take a square of banana loaf and fruit. As wonderful as the spread looks, it is the middle of the night, and we had a huge dinner.

  Once Connolly’s had his coffee, we start talking, and we don’t stop for the next hour.

  Neither of us jumps at the chance to work with Vanessa. Her offer seems too good to be true, and so we presume it is. There must be a catch, even if her reputation suggests she’s trustworthy.

  We analyze our chances of doing this without her. They aren’t good. We have only the barest information on Hope’s captors. Sightings of cars and strangers in Unstable, which are useless until we have a suspect. A mechanically altered voice on a phone. A man talking to a blindfolded Ani in the back of a van. A SIM card, which Connolly’s tech contact will have this morning, but even she doesn’t expect to get anything from it.

  We need to go to the party. Listen to voices. Study the main players. Then there’s the necklace, the guest of honor. I want to get close to it. See whether I’d be able to uncurse it if it came to that.

  We decide to make a counteroffer. We’d like Vanessa to take us to that black-tie event before we agree to anything. Afterward, the three of us will assess the real chances of rescuing Hope and lifting Rian’s debt before the auction. If Vanessa thinks she can do it—and we believe her—we’ll proceed.

  “I want to apologize to you, as well,” Connolly says, before we call Vanessa back in.

  I tense.

  “Not about the nightmare.” He refreshes his coffee. “Yes, I do feel the compulsion to apologize for that, which I understand is awkward because you realize it wasn’t me.”

  “I do. One hundred percent. If we have to speak about it, I’d rather we referred to my ‘attacker.’ Any resemblance to you is no different than a costume.”

  “I appreciate that.” He sips his coffee. “What I want to apologize for, though, is that night in my office. I don’t think I ever properly acknowledged that what I did was wrong.”

  “Blocking me from leaving? You did apologize. We’re good.”

  He shakes his head. “I mean the test. I knew you were upset over it, but I dismissed your concerns as overreacting. I needed to test you, and therefore tricking you was acceptable.”

  His gaze lifts to mine. “When Vanessa said she’d sent a dream to test you, I was furious. You came to her in good faith, and instead of treating you like a fellow professional, she resorted to trickery and subterfuge to test you. It was disrespectful.”

  I nod and tap a little more cocoa on my coffee.

  “That’s what I did,” he says. “I didn’t see it that way. I do now. If you were an employee who’d given me reason to distrust you, a test would be warranted. But you weren’t. If I wanted to test you, I should have said so. Told you I had a curse-weaving job and asked for proof of your abilities, and then it would have been your choice to agree or walk away. I thought I was being clever. I wasn’t.”

  I nod, accepting his apology. We sip a little more coffee in silence. Then Connolly rises and says, “I’ll ask Vanessa to join us.”

  Vanessa agrees to our terms. Connolly gives his word that we will deal fairly with her. We won’t use her to gain access to the party and then run off with any information we gather there. I don’t think she’s worried about that. Connolly may have entered this auction expecting to be treated like a serious contender, but he’s getting a clear lesson in the truth. Like when Hope’s captor needled me about my skills—a reminder that, to the greater magical world, specializing in the joker’s jinx makes me, well, a bit of a joke.

  Connolly isn’t a joke. He br
ings the power of his family name and, while he’s new in this game, his reputation is solid. He thought that bought him a seat at the head table. It only got him through the door. I look around Vanessa’s place, and I know we’re both seriously out of our league here. Having Vanessa vouch for Connolly will be critical.

  The party is tonight in New York, and we have nothing to wear. Naturally, Connolly has suitable attire at his condo in Boston, and I have suitable attire in an alternate universe where I’m Princess Kennedy, heir to the throne of some tiny European country.

  While Connolly could drive to Boston and back in time, we both opt for a formal-wear rental shop. As much as I’d love to pop back home—if only to see Ani—Unstable is on the other side of Boston, which makes the trip out of the question.

  All that preparation will come later. First, Vanessa shows us the security video. Vanessa had already checked it while we talked, and she’d found the breach. The video shows just the occasional glimpse of a shadowy figure coming over the fence and avoiding all motion detectors on the way to my window. Someone who knew her security system and where I’d be sleeping as her guest. That, apparently, narrows it down to pretty much everyone in the inner circle of bidders. Not exactly helpful.

  Next, we need sleep. The coffee sustained me enough to get through two hours of talking and negotiating and planning. Then I’m exhausted, my entire body dreaming of that incredible bed I barely got to sleep in. Of course, thinking about sleep reminds me why I’m so tired.

  Vanessa promises me a sound and uninterrupted sleep. For a dream shaper, that’s no idle boast. Of course, granting sleep must be balanced with sleep deprivation, but Vanessa assures me she has backup mechanisms. I suppose that’s easy enough to do. For everyone in need of sleep, there’s someone needing a night without it.

  We part ways and head off to bed, and I’m asleep before dawn’s first light.

  Chapter Twenty-Six