Enchanted Again. Robin D. Owens

The first division of their family business had been real estate and Rafe knew enough about that to appreciate the area. Like many Denver neighborhoods, it was a mixture of styles. A brace of craftsman bungalows, the smallest of the houses, sat at each side of the entrance of the cul-de-sac. The street was only wide enough for two lanes—and two lanes the size of regular cars. Forget SUVs here.

       Amber’s southern neighbor was a Denver square, two-storied of deep redbrick, and round windows on the second level that almost looked like eyes. When he and Amber had passed it, it had seemed to waver so he’d continue around. Amber’s place was a Victorian with a turret and a round window or two.

       Next was a Tudor English-manor-type place that wouldn’t look out of place in the Berkshires. Then came a four-storied castle with round turrets on each side. The land rose a little and there was a stone wall topped with iron spikes before that place. Rafe paused before the gate. The house looked empty, but was obviously the most expensive lot in the neighborhood, and well-cared-for.

       The following house wasn’t a style he knew. Wide at the bottom with a large porch consisting of many-paned windows. He liked the look of it. Redbrick, white trim. Solid. Three stories. It made him think of sea captains.

       In Denver, right.

       He kept on going to see a Spanish-style place with a red-tiled roof. Next was a house of angles, square towers, round windows again. Oddly charming though it was pink. A little plate on the gate read The Fanciful House. Then he reached the last bungalow and was at the street entrance and he still had fifteen minutes.

       And he was getting hungry. There was an Irish pub in the business district. He’d call Brilliant Limos and direct them to O’Hearn’s. But he was reluctant to leave the cul-de-sac; it offered a quiet peace. He’d often thought that peace was overrated, but he liked it here.

       His stomach grumbled and decided for him.

       Within the minute, he’d asked the limo service to divert to O’Hearn’s and was informed that his friend Don was driving a black BMW sedan. He told the dispatcher that he’d treat Don to lunch and got an affirmative. Everything was set. He was a block from the business area and crossing the street to the corner pub when they dive-bombed him.

       Huge crows. No! Shadowy bats.

       He flung his arms up to cover his head, beat the things off. Could’ve sworn their beaks pierced his skin at his wrist. Were sucking.

       His hand grasped something—feathers? Oily fluff, leather. But he felt a neck in his fingers, the thing struggled madly. More things hit his head, his shoulders. Too much force for birds or bats. Like he’d been caught in a shot of forced air.

       He fell. Hard on the pavement. Heard the neck snap. The bird went limp.

       Brakes squealed and a big, black Beemer stopped inches before hitting him. The door flew open and a man got out, yelling, “Hell, Rafe, what the hell are you doing in the middle of the street!”

       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