Enchanted Again

by Robin D. Owens

  Rafe let the thing go, sat up and rubbed his head. It hurt, but he didn’t think he’d hit it on the tarmac. One of the bat things had thudded into his temple, hard.

  No. Of course not. “You see any bats?”

  “Bats!” Don sounded incredulous. He set a beefy hand under Rafe’s elbow and boosted. “On a sunny day? In Denver?”

  “No, I didn’t think so,” Rafe said. Blinking, he looked around. There were pigeons on the phone lines, but not even one crow. Damn.

  “Geez.” Don, a stocky man a decade older than Rafe, manhandled him into the back of the car. “I’d’a never heard the end of it if I’d hit you. You need a doc? Should I take you to an emergency room?”

  “No.” Rafe rubbed his temples. Liquid trickled along his left arm from his wrist. Tears in his shirt, scuffs on his jacket that he couldn’t determine came from sliding along gravel or a claw or two.

  He used Don’s word. “Hell.”

  Don pulled over to the curb, looked at Rafe over the seat. “A walk-in clinic’s close.”

  Rafe worked his jaw, then smiled. That hurt. “No, I’m good. Had worse problems from a fall or two.”

  Don grunted. “Better you than me. You still want to eat at O’Hearn’s or go to Conrad’s?”

  “Conrad’s first. I want a hot shower.”

  “Heard his divorce went through.”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn shame.”

  “Yes.”

  “Strap in, buddy,” Don ordered and kept his gaze in the rearview until Rafe did, then he checked for traffic—none—and pulled back into the street.

  “You know any good hotels in the area?” The words were out of Rafe’s mouth before he knew he was going to say them. He didn’t know why. Except he liked the looks of Mystic Circle. And maybe he wanted to keep an eye on Sarga.

  “There’s a good bed-and-breakfast a few blocks away. Big old Victorian place.”

  “Girly?” Rafe asked.

  “Nah, not so much. Also, an apartment place that might have something open.”

  “I’ll take the B and B,” Rafe decided.

  “Not staying at Conrad’s?”

  “No. He’s going out of town, and I like the looks of this area. We can pick up my duffel, then come back to O’Hearn’s.”

  “Sounds good. Steak is good at O’Hearn’s,” Don said.

  “Right.” Rafe leaned back against the leather seat. The morning was catching up with him. He felt more battered than he should have, weaker. A glance at his left wrist showed blood crusting his blue cuff. He pushed the cuff back and saw bruising around the puncture.

  Unaccustomed to being attacked from the air, he’d landed poorly. The left side of his face was scraped, and the fact that he’d gotten it from pavement when he wasn’t riding a bike and having fun pissed him off. His head ached and he figured he had a nice lump coming up above his temple. His left knee throbbed.

  He talked basketball teams with Don and wondered about bats and crows and headaches and gypsy curses.

  Rafe and Don never made it to O’Hearn’s. Instead Rafe showered and changed at Conrad’s and they ate food that had been prepared for Conrad and Rafe. He found a quick text from Conrad that he’d gotten Rafe’s message about Marta being used, and would be wary. Conrad had hired a plane to fly to Bakir Zagora. That reminded Rafe to call a car leasing company and rent a car. He settled for a Jag.

  After lunch, Rafe informed the dour housekeeper he’d be staying at a bed-and-breakfast and saw relief in her eyes. He left her the number in case of any emergency.

  When the Jag arrived, Don insisted on following Rafe to Juno’s Inn. The limo owner kept a shrewd gaze on him as Rafe took the steps. He ached, he didn’t deny that. At the porch, he turned and jerked his thumb for Don to go away. The BMW drove slowly, and Rafe figured he’d be hearing from Don the next day—just in case he was in worse shape than he admitted.

  The middle-age woman who admitted him also noted his scraped face and limp and assured him that his room had a spa tub. Rafe nodded. He gritted his teeth up another flight of stairs. The place was too fussy for him, and he wondered how Amber Sarga decorated her Victorian.

  Then he made it to the bed and decided to lie down for a couple of minutes. As sleep swirled around him, he saw shadows dive-bomb him again, felt the peck and stab of beaks…and the thing’s bone crack as its neck broke.

  It took longer for Amber to wrap up Cissy Smart Gortel’s family tree and report than anticipated. But by the time Amber had, she was feeling better.

  After she’d finished the family tree, she’d spread it out on her large worktable. Even before she touched the large chart, pink-purple magic swirled from her fingers. Surely it was a good sign that her minor magic came quicker now?

  She knew, then, that she’d be able to include a story. Darkness had swirled around her and she’d observed a scene in the Smarts’ past. A wonderful, hopeful scene. Cissy’s forebears had been part of the underground railroad and helped slaves escape. A couple of hours later, Amber had found documentation of the event from several stories of ex-slaves compiled after the Civil War.

  Smiling, Amber rolled up the chart and the report and put them in a tube and attached the proper postage. Before she left the room, her gaze was drawn to the tube that Conrad had given her.

  No, it should wait for another day. Or at least after chocolate pie.

  At the bottom of the stairs Tiro stood, scowling and with his arms crossed. For an instant he looked like an odd garden statue and she had to choke back a laugh.

  “I’m ready for my pie,” he grumbled. He glanced at the mantel clock in the living room. “It’s almost tea time.”

  “Chocolate pie takes twenty minutes to make at the most.” She had some frozen crusts.

  He grunted. Amber shrugged and headed into the kitchen.

  Time with the other brownies mellowed Tiro slightly. He was downright gleeful when he learned another brownie at Jenni’s place was indentured to a cat. And Tiro was pleased to be asked to help with Pred’s excavation projects.

  Pred finished his piece quickly and said, “I will extend the tunnel from the common meeting area under the center of the cul-de-sac to your basement.” He glanced at Tiro. “You can help.”

  Tiro’s eyes gleamed. “Digging!”

  “See what you miss when you live by yourself?” Hartha said.

  Pred tilted his head. “Open the tunnel from Jenni’s basement to yours. Put in a door.”

  Amber stared, thought of the sunroom that had appeared nearly overnight on the back of Jenni’s house. “Where’s Jenni? She’s been gone a month.”

  Jenni’s brownies appeared unhappy, even with rings of chocolate around their mouths and on their lips. “Jindesfarne is on a dangerous mission,” Pred said.

  Hartha looked toward the south, where the street of the cul-de-sac led to other human byways. “Change is coming, for sure.” Her thin shoulders shivered. She stared at Tiro. “And sometimes it isn’t good. Mystic Circle is a special place. And great evil Dark ones know of it.” She frowned at Tiro. “Now we have this brownieman here, and someday he will bring Cumulustre. That is not something to anticipate, either.”

  “What’s a Dark one?” asked Amber.

  “Pure evil with power you can’t imagine. Only four remain,” Tiro said. “Of course this place would draw them. We’ll run if we need to.”

  Amber didn’t think he meant her. Sounded like she might be sacrificed one way or the other.

  Chapter 7

  RAFE AWOKE WHEN the light changed, the last yellow slant of the sun angling from the windows. Sitting up, he groaned. Damn, he felt like an old man, stiff and sore. But the short sleep had cleared his mind. He knew what he needed to do. He was going back to the business district near Mystic Circle and find that dead crow. Maybe then he’d get a clue about what was going on.

  Ignoring his aches and pains, Rafe headed into the diminishing day. Once he was in the car, the purring motor and the sweet vibration s
oothed him. It was a short drive to the place where he fell. He had a good geographic sense and was sure he could find one bird corpse.

  The street had many more cars parked along it than before. He found a spot near where he had fallen and began checking the street and curb. Absolutely no feathers. An odd porous-looking hollow stick of grayish-white caught his eye. Hunkering down, he picked it up. It was light and felt…slimy. There hadn’t been snow in Denver for days, and nothing else was damp.

  He looked closer at his prize and the back of his throat coated as a nasty scent rose from it. Definitely a bone. But clean. Like something had eaten whatever the bone belonged to. Standing, his gaze ran along the gutter and bumped at another gray bone. This looked roundish…with, maybe, a tooth?

  Again he squatted. This time he didn’t touch the thing, didn’t even want to nudge it with his foot. God knows what crap it would leave on his shoe. He found a stick and stirred at the mess of old leaves and gravel and a shoddy leather patch.

  For an instant he thought he saw a skull. And not a regular bird skull. Something out of his childhood playtime when he had dinosaur action figures. He shook his head. No, of course not. He looked closer. He’d been wrong. Now it looked birdlike. He poked it with a stick and the whole damn thing fell into dust. Must have been there a long time. Not just today.

  Then there was a last shaft of light through purple velvet clouds and he glanced up to see a bloody sun. He dropped the stick.

  The whole day had unsettled him. His head ached. He must have banged it harder than he’d thought.

  He damn well wanted a drink, and O’Hearn’s would be the place to get it.

  Green paper shamrocks decorated the pub’s windows, reminding Rafe that St. Pat’s holiday was soon. Walking through the canvas-and-plastic outdoor porch toward the door, he opened it to the smell of good pub food and excellent beer.

  The long room was floored in dark wood, with cushy-sided booths all along the walls. Since it was a little early for the office-job slaves, he had a pick of tables and seated himself in the corner. He ordered chips and salsa and the best imported beer they had and desultorily watched the TV over the bar, where silent talking heads were imposed in front of a basketball game.

  Damn Conrad for getting him into this. God-awful strange stuff had been happening to him all damn day.

  A tall man with gleaming silver hair, wearing a long, caped-shoulder trench coat that swirled around him, strode up to Rafe and slipped into the opposite seat. Rafe eyed him but wasn’t inclined to protest. There was something about that man…

  The dude was…well, not pretty, ’cuz he was masculine enough… Aw, too handsome. But he carried the same brand of beer Rafe was drinking. Stretching out long legs covered with smooth, dark brown leather, the man looked toward the door, didn’t meet Rafe’s eyes. It seemed more like he was being courteous than cowardly. Rafe guessed it was the way he moved—like a guy who could take care of himself and wipe the floor with you.

  Someone turned the TV volume up and sports stats spewed from it, drowning out all other sound. The man said clearly, “So, Rafael Barakiel Davail, how would you like to learn how to live past your thirty-third birthday?”

  Rafe choked on his beer. Spewed. Oh, that was couth. Worse, his bottle fell from his limp fingers and hit the table and tipped over, chugging out beer. Liquid went on his hands and the table and his pants and dripped onto the floor. He stared at the gathering puddle, not wanting to look at the guy. Maybe he wasn’t really there. Maybe this was all a hallucination.

  Despite himself, his gaze slid to the man’s long, elegant fingers. He moved his forefinger in an arc of no more than a half inch. The pungent scent of spilled beer vanished. So did the amber liquid Rafe had been looking at. So did the stickiness on his fingers, the dampness on his knee. The wooden table shone as if another layer of poly had just been added, and two full glasses of beer with light froth stood on the table.

  “I prefer draught porter, don’t you?” the man asked.

  Rafe just closed his eyes and thunked back into the corner.

  “Rough day?” asked the guy.

  “Somehow I think you know,” Rafe said. He cracked his eyelids and saw a concerned expression on the man’s face. And ears as pointed as a movie elf’s.

  Damn. It. To. Hell.

  Rafe looked away and when he glanced back there were no pointed ears. The man studied him quizzically.

  “You said something about my birthday?”

  A corner of the man’s mouth lifted, but his eyes grew hooded. “Cautious? Being so stubborn isn’t wise.” He shifted a trifle, as did his coat, and Rafe thought he saw a weapon strapped to the guy’s hip. Then the man lifted his drink and drank, and his expression grew pleased. When he looked back at Rafe, his smile faded. “What I could tell you is a long and convoluted story. Which I see that you would not believe. And not believing, it would fade from your mind within hours, particularly the details that are vital.”

  He met Rafe’s gaze and Rafe was caught. The blue of the man’s eyes became all there was in the universe. Dimly, Rafe knew he was in trouble, tried to twitch, do anything to break the man’s mental hold, couldn’t. No fear came, only the wish to please this one.

  Then the guy looked away and Rafe’s gut churned. He should get up, leave. Hell, he should kick the chair out from under the man and head out the back door. He didn’t think he’d get far.

  Once again the dude kept his gaze aside and Rafe appreciated that.

  “Rafael Barakiel Davail,” he said softly. So softly that Rafe shouldn’t have been able to hear him over the loud TV.

  Rafe drank his beer. Unusual taste. He let it sit on his tongue while he considered if it actually came from this place. Helluva thing to think. “That’s my name,” Rafe said.

  “Indeed. But the addition of the name of the angel of fortune will not keep you from death from the curse.”

  Now the man’s voice was all too deadly.

  Rafe took another swallow. “You here to kill me?”

  “No. And I did not set the shadleeches on you.”

  All the fine hair on Rafe’s body ruffled. Shadleeches. The image of the bird-not-bird skull came, the hollow gray bone.

  “The sooner your life ends, the sooner some will rejoice.” The man cut his gaze to Rafe, then back. Rafe felt the power of him, knew he could have snagged him again.

  “So there are things that you can hear. Such as discussion of your curse.”

  Rafe kept his flinch inward, didn’t think doing that hid it from the man’s sight.

  “Shadleeches,” the guy said.

  “What are shadleeches?”

  “Will you remember if I tell you?” the elf mused. “They are the evil things that attacked you, born from dark magic in the last half decade. Dark ones—greater magical beings whom we Lightfolk fight—use shadleeches to attack and weaken people with magic.” The elf paused two beats. “Like you.”

  Rafe’s mind grappled with the notion. His mouth was dry and he drank more ale, swallowed. “What do they look like?”

  “Rather like airborne stingrays but with defined heads.” Another few seconds of silence, then the guy repeated, “Shadleeches.”

  Rafe shuddered.

  “That’s a good sign. We may be able to save you.”

  “We?”

  “I. A friend. Yourself. You are not as blind as you might be, and your hearing is better than your sight. I advise you to listen to that around you.”

  “My birthday,” Rafe persisted.

  “That is the complicated story that you can’t hear yet. But you might hear and remember this—I can offer to ensure you are where you must be on your thirty-third birthday.”

  Damned if the man’s voice didn’t lilt in an almost musical way, and the light caught the silver of his hair and his ears were back to being pointed…then round.

  “M’father, all my forefathers…” Rafe lifted his hand in a helpless gesture. “One’a them must have listened to you.”
That came out bitter. If they had listened, he wouldn’t be here listening to one strange dude.

  “I couldn’t make this offer to your father, or any of your forebears. But in the last few months there have been developments.” He smiled and Rafe felt uncomfortably stunned. Like he was slowly being wrapped up in a silken spiderweb.

  “I can see I disconcerted you.” The elf…no, the man stood. “We can talk later, after you give up trying to convince yourself that you have brain damage, are mad, or hallucinating. When you accept the truth.” He stood looking down on Rafe and every breath he took was hard, as if the air wouldn’t be sucked into his lungs. “I’m not sure it is a good thing that you are attracted to Amber Sarga. That’s bound to cause complications.” There was a shrug and the guy’s cape…coat…whatever…rippled. His nod was regal. “Don’t wait too long, Rafe Barakiel, or it will be too late.”

  Then he was gone and Rafe’s nose twitched and he thought he smelled ozone after a hard rain.

  He studied the beer, then decided to drink it anyway. As he reached for it, he saw a business card. It was pale green. One word was in script. Pavan. The rest read Eight Corp, and gave an address in downtown Denver.

  He drank his beer and threw down a twenty, decided to leave the Jag and walk to Juno’s Inn. His steps took him to Mystic Circle and he stared. There was a For Sale sign in front of number two, the fanciful pink house. Fumbling in his pocket for his phone, he snapped a pic, texted his financial agent “buy now.”

  Then he jogged to the inn, every step making his head ache, sloshing the beer in his belly. And he felt as if the shadow of a beast of prey fell over him.

  Amber couldn’t help herself. After dinner she went up to her office and opened Conrad’s tube and took out the family tree charts.

  Rafe’s chart felt odd and slick and yet had an undertone that she liked, that called to her.

  More than just a curse needing to be broken called to her.

  She leaned Rafe’s roll against a bookcase next to the window. Conrad’s she spread out on her worktable. Handling the paper had magic gathering in her hands, flowing through her body. Her own minor magic that let her experience moments of the past.