Enchanted Again. Robin D. Owens

He shoved the tablet onto the bedside table, squinted. Something else was luminous.

       It was the pale green business card he’d gotten that evening. Odd. He picked it up again, eyes widening when he saw a new word on it. “Pavan,” it said, then below, “Troubleshooter.”

       Rafe began to think that he’d need someone to help him shoot the trouble in his life.

       He crawled under the covers. It was a cold night. He waited to hear the heat turn on, but it didn’t. The old-fashioned wind-up mantel clock ticked the seconds away.

       In the morning he was awakened by an apologetic host, informing him that the inn would have to close. There had been a freak accident that had blown the electrical system.

       Rafe nodded, dressed and paid his shot and took off in the Jag to Mystic Circle. He wondered if Amber would like to go out for breakfast, then noted it was late, about 10:00 a.m.

       He didn’t want to be anywhere except the cul-de-sac. Amber and the house he was interested in were good rationalizations to go back. Not just because he felt safer there for some unknown reason.

       His cell lilted with the orchestral tune of his financial advisor. Since the Jag was a stick shift, he didn’t answer. As soon as he pulled into Mystic Circle, tension eased from him. He stopped before number two, the one he wanted to buy. The For Sale sign was gone. His heart gave a solid thump of disappointment. Had someone—say a dude with silver hair and pointed ears—snapped up the house before Rafe? And would it appeal to such a guy?

       More hard thoughts about curses that worked when there should be no such thing. Of tall men who could look at you and have you sitting still to do whatever they wanted. Of disappearing beer and appearing lager.

       He closed his eyes, replayed his conversation with Pavan and the implications. He’d followed his hunches most of his life, all except the deepest ones. Decision time.

       His phone rang again and he answered his financial advisor’s call. “Hey, Cynthia. I’m sitting in front of number two Mystic Circle right now.”

       “It’s very odd,” said Cynthia. “They won’t close without proof that you’ll be alive at the end of the year. I’ve never heard anything like it. Who can give proof of such a thing? I can forward some medical records if you want…”

       “That wouldn’t work,” Rafe said. “Will they take earnest money to keep the house off the listings?”

       “Yes…but, you know, it didn’t get listed.” Her tone was disapproving at the inefficiency.

       “Who’s the owner?”

       “Oh. It’s a firm there in Denver, not a regular real estate firm, though they have holdings.... Eight Corp.”

       Rafe wasn’t really surprised. “All right then. Give them the earnest money.”

       A pause. “The amount is such that I’ll have to notify your brother, Gabriel.”

       Rafe didn’t say that she could tell Gabe the next time they were in bed—he was slightly less rude. “When’s the wedding?”

       “He won’t make plans until next year.”

       Probably because he thought he’d be mourning a brother. Gabe hadn’t told Cynthia the family secret, then. Tough on a good guy to inform a beloved that their first son might die because of a curse. Too many ways a discussion like that could go wrong.

       “Tell Gabe that he’d like the house, and the area. Anything in the block is worth snapping up. And let him know my will is up to date.”

       “You aren’t doing anything dangerous, are you?”

       “I’m not participating in any competitions right now.” No sports at least, though an idea was forming in his head that he’d be going on a quest. Which would be the most dangerous thing he’d ever done in his life.