Cursebound (Magical Entanglements Book 2)

by Rachel Shane

  “Um,” Delilah stammered when the woman refused to make use of her voice. “You must be Susan.” Cole had told Delilah a few things about his mother. Her name. Her hatred for all his previous girlfriends, except Britta of course but there was likely a magical reason for Susan’s delight over that girl.

  “Mrs. Tiernan,” Susan—er, Mrs. Tiernan—snapped. Delilah reeled back as if she’d been slapped. All right, I guess we haven’t reached the first name basis level of relationships.

  “Mom,” Cole scolded. “This is my girlfriend. Please play nice.”

  “If she lasts more than a month, I might consider getting to know her.” Mrs. Tiernan barreled past Delilah, knocking her askew with her ample hip. Both Delilah’s torso and her confidence smarted at the double jab, one physical, one emotional. She bit her lip for the brief moment that Mrs. Tiernan’s back was turned but immediately popped a smile back on her face when the woman spun around to glare. “Aren’t you going to get my bag?” Her eyes landed on the oversized tote bag flopping over at Delilah’s feet.

  Cole let out a giant sigh before brushing past Delilah and grabbing the bag. “Sorry about her,” he whispered. “I promise, she gets better.”

  Delilah couldn’t imagine he was wrong. After all, how could this woman get any worse? There was no where to go but up.

  The pitter patter of elephant feet preceded the squeals of Cole’s three nephews tackle hugging their grandmother. Cole had told Delilah she lived about an hour away from Vegas, in a small town that prided itself on its ability to deal with heat. His mother worked as a waitress in a tiny diner that was only ever frequented by tourists stopping in on their drive from LA. The kids would have to adjust to a new life, a new place, now that both people they could count on had abandoned them coldly and abruptly. Susan would have to take off from work in order to watch the littlest during the day, a fact she didn’t let Cole forget until he agreed to pay her for her time with money he didn’t have.

  After Susan had a few minutes to bond with her grandsons, presenting each of them with a small gift of a blanket she knitted herself, she sent the kids to play in the backyard and wheeled on Cole and Delilah. “Tell me what really happened to Jewel,” she snapped. “No one goes insane overnight.”

  Delilah cringed. Because the truth was, she hadn’t become mentally unstable overnight. It had been a six-month journey, beginning the moment her husband Robert was killed as part of Cole’s gambling debts. And mentally unstable wasn’t the right word either. It wasn’t insanity she’d succumbed to. It was magic. The mental institution was only a front on the outside for layman’s. On the inside, it was a rehab facility for people who had abused magic and needed to find the balance once again. Several of Delilah’s law school classmates had ended up there at one point or another over the course of their magical law careers.

  Cole bit his lip, avoiding his mother’s eyes and pleading with Delilah behind her back, clearly unable to pluck the right words—the non-incriminating words—out of the air.

  Delilah pasted on a concerned face even though her concern for Jewel’s well being hovered around exactly zero percent. That was what happened when someone tried to kill you. “It wasn’t overnight. She’s been suffering now for months. This—”

  Susan scoffed. “You knew her for two days. Don’t speak on her behalf.” She turned to Cole, waiting expectantly for his response.

  “It wasn’t overnight,” he said. “She’s been suffering now for months. This is the best thing for her.” Unlike Delilah, the concern oozed from Cole’s voice and mannerisms.

  Susan nodded and softened as if Cole’s declaration was the first time she’d heard it. “Well, I’m glad she’s getting the help she needs. But your nephews need you. You’re the father figure in their life now that Robert’s…” Her voice hitched and her shoulders shook. Delilah guessed Robert had passed Susan’s insane tests of acceptance if she could get emotional just speaking about his passing.

  “I told you on the phone,” Cole said, now seeming a little agitated. “It’s only until after the poker tournament. I need to win this so I can provide for those boys.”

  But Susan was still glaring at Delilah. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

  Delilah got the distinct impression that battling Kendrick, the most powerful witch she’d ever met, would be a cakewalk compared to earning Susan’s respect.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  COLE

  Cole usually ditched the pre-tournament banquet tradition. It was lame. It was a fame grab, where producers milled about setting up elaborate rivalry scenarios between contestants for cameras to capture and exploit. In a few months, the tournament will air on one of the leading cable networks with cutesy little card animations in the lower third of the screen and far too many puns by the off screen narrator host. It defeated the whole purpose of poker in Cole’s mind. He liked the challenge of figuring out his contestants on the fly, watching them crumble or stay calm under pressure. Hobnobbing with them in advance threw in too many wild cards where his unbiased opinions about them might be skewed by the worst thing of all: accidentally bonding with them.

  Still, Cole agreed to attend this year’s banquet for the sole purpose of reconnaissance, an idea he could get behind. He always wondered if in another life, he would have ended up as a con artist rather than a gambler. They were essentially the same thing, except one involved sweet talking while the other involved silence. Both required you to never show your cards.

  He dusted off his tux from the closet, the one he last wore to his sister Jewel’s wedding eleven years ago. His throat tightened as he twisted the bow tie into place. It was his fault everything had gone so wrong. If he hadn’t had gambling debts that Jewel’s husband stepped in to try to fix, Robert would still be alive. And if Robert was still alive, Jewel wouldn’t be in a magical mental hospital. His nephews would still have both their parents.

  He would never have met Delilah.

  Cole wiped a single tear that escaped his eye with the back of his hand and let out a shaky breath. He had to be strong. He had to right his wrongs. He had to save Delilah. It was the only way to make up for all the people he let die or become irrevocably damaged by his own actions and negligence. He zipped up his fly, spritzed a cloud of musky cologne, and downed a shot of vodka. Liquid courage. He was going to need it.

  Delilah let out a little gasp as Cole swaggered into her living room. “Wow,” she said. “I might be changing my mind about us going tonight. Maybe we should stay in.”

  Cole nearly agreed on the spot right there. She was standing by the living room mirror, dusting gold sparkles over her eyelids in the mirror above the mantle, her hair falling down her back in curly ringlets. She wore only a bra and underwear but her full-bodied satin dress was draped over the back of a chair. Cole couldn’t wait to see her in it. No, he couldn’t wait to see her out of it at the end of the night. He kissed her deeply on the mouth, hard and fierce. A promise for later.

  “Good luck,” she whispered into his ear, leaving a warm imprint behind his lobe with her lips that sent shivers down his spine.

  He didn’t need luck. He needed magic. But of course couldn’t have any taint of magic on his body or Kendrick’s sensors might pick it up.

  The drive to the convention center was a lonely one and Cole wished Delilah was by his side, burning sage leaves and thrusting them into his pants pockets. For protection, she claimed, but he suspected she just liked shoving her hands down his pants. Or maybe that was what he liked.

  He parked in the full lot, took a deep breath of hot desert air, and squared his shoulders. He had to appear confident, like he could beat any of his competition without breaking a sweat. He swiped on extra deodorant for good measure.

  The Las Vegas convention center was lit with the requisite glitz and glam, Cole had to squint against the bright lights and shimmering decorations lining the walls. Diamond encrusted curtains covered every inch of the normally beige walls, instantly transforming the
room from generic to show stopping in that trademark Las Vegas way. Giant chandeliers hung from the ceilings, imported into the room and placed every few feet so every person standing on the floor was showered in prismatic dots of light. Delilah had warned him that bright lights, the use of prisms, and a constant swirl of shadows might be in play tonight. Lights and refractions of prisms were a necessary component to any spells used to illuminate magic, whether rampant or dormant. Cole took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and hoped to God the curses—both the ones he defeated and the one he was still bound to via Delilah’s contract—would be immune to the detection. Delilah swore curses wouldn’t ping any magical detection sensors since the sensors were looking for the kind of magic running deep in blood or spells recently cast. But based on what Cole knew of Kendrick, he wasn’t so sure. After all, the guy killed his ex-girlfriend’s parents. People like that didn’t stick to the usual conventions.

  Cole plucked a high ball glass filled with something amber that tasted like bourbon from a waitress clad in a tight, skimpy black dress. The kind of dress Cole might have forced himself not to stare at days ago. But now he found his eyes sweeping right past, his desires still stored several miles away, back in Delilah’s house where she was slipping into her own dress. They’d planned to time their arrivals at exactly thirty three minutes apart, a time Delilah insisted on because of its connection to the number three, a number nature apparently loved. Cole only cared for numbers that could be found on a deck of cards, though he preferred royals more.

  Cole downed his glass, then quickly grabbed another, along with a few bites of foie gras on crostini. He would have preferred his hors d’ouvres to be beer battered and fried. With his liquid courage reinforced and some food under his belt, he wedged his way into the first circle of people he came across, discerning everything there was to know about them in only a few seconds by their quick tells. Redhead with the victory rolls had a huge crush on Debonair Sunglasses guy—obvious by the way she glanced up at him from beneath her false eyelashes, the corners of her lips quirking into a subtle smile when he spoke. Sunglasses was feigning boredom in the conversation, going so far as to let out a few “stray” yawns, but his eyes kept locking on each individual as they spoke, betraying his casual interest. He was studying up on them too. Salt and Pepper Gray on the other hand kept roaming his gaze, searching for an escape from the conversation. His eyes trailed the waitresses balancing trays of food. If Cole was a betting man—and as luck would have it, he was—he would guess Salt and Pepper was not a contestant in the tournament. He was a plus one.

  All three faces settled on Cole for a moment and he froze, realizing his mistake. By scoping them out, he’d given away his own tell. This was why he avoided pre-tournament events. It gave everyone too much information on him.

  Victory rolls gave him a tight smile. “Wow. I’d say I’m in the company of greatness but how long exactly does the statute of limitations last on that term? Five years? Seven?” She laughed to herself, her champagne rattling in her shaky hand. “Whatever it is, it’s been far too long and with too many losses.”

  Cole winced inwardly at her jab about his recent losses. And not so recent losses. Still, he kept his face poised, an amused smile playing on his lips like her insult had just bounced right off him. “Well, it seems my reputation outlasts any statute of limitations.” He took a casual sip of his drink. “And you are? No one I know, obviously.”

  Her smile wavered at his own little jab before she lifted her chin. “After Saturday, you won’t be able to forget me.”

  Debonair coughed out a word, “Naomi Barker.”

  Naomi smacked him on the shoulder, her grin going even wider. Yep, she had it bad. “Hey, I don’t go around giving your secrets.”

  Debonair shrugged her off. “That’s because I have none. And a name isn’t a secret. It’s a legacy.”

  His voice pinged something familiar in Cole, turning the back of Cole’s neck to ice. The cocky, confident way he spoke mixed with the I-absolutely-don’t-care attitude. It was five years ago. It was the loss that started them all. Debonair had been younger then. Greener. But he looked as hardened as the rest of them now. Cole stiffened. “Eli.”

  Eli sipped his glass of bourbon casually, forcing Cole to wait for his reaction. “I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

  Eli Furst was renowned lately for being, well, first. In every competition he’d participated in the last few years, he was the one to beat. The reigning champion. No wonder Naomi had a hard on for him.

  Five years ago Cole and Eli sat on opposite sides of the final table. Eli had swept nearly every hand, knocking each player out until it was just him, Cole, and one other guy. The only hands Eli hadn’t managed to take were the ones that Cole added to his pile, while the third guy kept folding to stay in the game. Eli had squinted at Cole, a clear challenge, and Cole didn’t back down. The guy was bluffing. Cole had figured out his tell early on. If he had a good hand, his chest stilled for the briefest of moments as he studied his cards before puffing out a breath of hot air. When his hand sucked, his breath remained steady and uninterrupted. Cole went all in, betting everything on a pair of nines and losing it all to three queens. It turned out the breathing act was the real bluff, intended to bait Cole in with a false sense of confidence and then take him for all he was worth. Cole hadn’t even earned second place.

  “So we meet again,” Cole said as Salt and Pepper twisted out of the conversation and grabbed a handful of crab cakes.

  Eli’s breath stilled. Only for a moment. An inside joke Cole wished he didn’t get. “Hopefully for a rematch.”

  Now it was Cole’s turn to bluff. “I look forward to beating you.”

  “Pssh,” Naomi said, waving her hand. “I’m taking you both down.” She jiggled her breasts in a way that made them graze against Eli’s arm. He pulled back, flinching, and so Cole dealt the best form of revenge he could short of winning it all in the tournament. He made a lame excuse and slipped away, stranding Eli with the one person he clearly was desperate to stop talking to.

  Cole spent the next twenty minutes desperately trying not to flit his eyes to the door, searching for Delilah. Even with the plan to stagger their grand entrances, she was extremely late. Cole’s stomach twisted as he imagined her vigilante curse bringing her straight into danger…and not being fast enough this time. A knife slicing straight through her gut. A punch that knocked her unconscious, hitting her head on the way down and smashing it open. Or worse, Delilah wielding a gun, a bit of magic, aiming for the person she thought was an enemy thanks to her blind rage from the curse—and once again condemning or killing an innocent person in the process. Cole swallowed against the bad taste in his mouth. Delilah might not want to rid herself of the curse that forced her to save people, whether they were victim or instigator, but he wondered if it was causing just as much harm as good.

  Instead of focusing on the door and giving away his own tells, Cole made an effort to circuit the room, learning a few more tidbits about the entrants. A girl whose eye twitched whenever she got excited. A guy with the perfect cold hard stare whose fingers curled ever so slightly under the table. A guy whose cadence of his voice modulated in increments. Cole got enough info to wonder why he always abandoned these events before. They were information gold mines.

  He was nodding his head along to another guy who was blabbering a long winded story about his online poker feats when a third guy sidled up to them, wrapping his arms around both their backs like they were old buds reuniting. The guy patted each of them once, then twisted to face them, pulling Cole’s conversation companion into a thick handshake. The fedora on top of the new guy’s head rattled a little as they shook hands, red strands of hair poking out of the back. A watch with the face of a geode circled his wrist. He was short with blue eyes that crinkled in the corners and a hearty laugh that resonated through Cole’s bones as he introduced himself. “Johnny. I’m one of the Producers.”

  Cole let out a si
gh, craning his neck for someone to use as an excuse to flee this conversation. The Producers weren’t worth his time. They were trying to find the right players to focus on for the cameras but Cole couldn’t care less about being on camera. In fact, that was partly why he never bothered to enter the McCoy tournament before.

  Johnny held out his hand to Cole. Cole offered him a tight smile and a head nod instead.

  Johnny guffawed. “What ya got against handshakes, man?” He snatched Cole’s hand from his side and wrapped his fingers around Cole’s, squeezing tight.

  Cole tried to wiggle free but Johnny kept his grip firm, his smile growing wider. “Let go,” Cole snapped as a bolt of anger raged through him. He didn’t mind handshakes…when they were mutually agreed upon. But this one was stolen against his will.

  Johnny kept on gripping for another few seconds, his smile growing so wide it almost reminded Cole of the Joker. Finally Johnny let go and rubbed his hands on his blazer. “Was that so bad?”

  “It was certainly weird.”

  Johnny threw his head back in laughter. “I like you. I think the camera will like you. Are you interested in shooting a feature that will be spliced in between high moments of tension?”

  “Nope.” Cole started to swivel away from Johnny.

  “But, I really think the viewers…”

  Cole tuned out Johnny’s pitch, roaming his eyes around the room instead. His breath caught. Across the way, a guy with shoulder length hemp-colored hair sipped a clear cocktail out of a short glass. When he spotted Cole staring at him, he raised his glass in toast.

  Cole’s entire body froze, his hands curling into fists. Derek Hamel was here. Derek Hamel being here was impossible.

  Derek Hamel was Cole’s former roommate. His best friend. His Friday night poker buddy. Until he wasn’t. A few months ago they both vied for the final spot in the McCoy tournament. It had come down to a final table. A final hand. Cole had won. Derek had been a sore loser, walking out of Cole’s life for good instead of extending a good sportsmanship handshake. But that wasn’t even the worst part. Recently, Cole learned that Derek had hired Britta to put a love spell on Cole in the hopes of distracting him long enough to flub the qualifying tournament. It hadn’t worked but the truth was still there, heavy and thick and suffocating Cole. Derek had gone out of his way to cheat.