Enchanted Again. Robin D. Owens

“We lost them,” reported the private detective Rafe had hired…just in case.

       “Find them. Money is no object.” He jerked his head at Conrad, who turned off the phone. Then Rafe accelerated on northbound Speer and kept to the posted, low speed limit on the elevated bridge.

       Conrad said, “Thanks, bro. I’ll pay you back.” He rolled his shoulders. “Now it begins, the search—” he waved “—everything else. At least I know I’ll live until I see him again. Not like your family death curse. You really think you’re going to last eight months to your thirty-third birthday?”

       Rafe ignored the fast clench of his gut. “For sure. Don’t worry about Marta and Dougie. We’ll find them. This P.I. firm’s the best.”

       Conrad shook his head again.

       A few minutes later they’d pulled up and parked in front of a brick Victorian house, complete with turret. The place was tucked away in a quiet cul-de-sac.

       “This is such a stupid idea,” Rafe said.

       Conrad said stiffly, “She’s the real deal, a gypsy and a curse breaker. I got her name a while back from a Romani psychic.”

       Conrad had always believed more in the “curses” than Rafe. Believed enough to research them a little, visit a psychic or three, line up experts, “keep his options open.” Rafe had ignored his friend’s quirk then. Now it was a real pain in the ass. More, Rafe was worried that some wacko would latch onto Conrad’s hurt and fear and milk it for all he was worth. Which was considerably less than it had been since Marta had wanted a lump sum settlement and Conrad had paid it.

       But Conrad still had a couple of million to attract leeches of the worst sort.

       Conrad closed his door, glanced around. He rolled his shoulders. “Don’t need to lock the Tesla. Lots of good energy.”

       Rafe winced, but Conrad loved his car. Seemed to Rafe that was a good sign they wouldn’t be staying long. The sooner he got Conrad back to the home he’d inherited from his mother, the better.

       “I’ll know if the woman’s a fake. I always know,” Conrad said.

       Rafe shrugged. Conrad had always said that, Rafe had always doubted the whole thing.

       “There’s a certain something about a woman with psi.” His mouth twisted. “Marta had it, a strong gift.” Conrad cocked his head. “Do you hear voices?”

       “Kids,” Rafe said. The tones had been high and piping, but were lost now in wild puppy barks. Reluctantly he followed Conrad as the man ignored the front concrete sidewalk and went around the south side of the house to a six-foot iron-post gate.

       “Hello, Amber Sarga!” Conrad called.

       Two young golden Labs raced from the back to jump on the other side of the gate. A frowning woman appeared a few instants later, not looking anything like the image Rafe had imagined. He’d visualized long dark and curly hair, and her wearing gypsy garb like he’d seen in films.

       Instead he thought of honey. Her skin was a natural tan, her eyes slightly tilted and golden brown. Her shoulder-length hair was a mixture of honey-and-maple-syrup-colored shades. And her lips were full and a dark rose. She wore blue jeans and two layered sweaters. The bottom one was white, a nice contrast against her skin, the top a dark turquoise.

       “Ms. Sarga.” Conrad actually grabbed the gate and rattled it. “I need to speak to you immediately. It’s an emergency.”

       Amber stared at the pair of handsome guys. About her physical age of early thirties, older than her true age of twenty-six.

       The dark, sophisticated-looking one appeared sweating and desperate. The guy with blond hair was scowling. If the clothes they wore and the car they drove was any indication, they were rich.

       None of that mattered as much as the fact that her fingers were tingling like they did when her gift stirred. She was in the presence of a strong curse. Then a wave of air rippled toward her and she revised her thought. Two strong curses.

       “Hsssst!”

       She glanced back and saw the male brownie just around the corner of her house.

       “Come back here! Don’t go near them! Don’t use your magic!” A stream of hushed words shot from the small man.

       “Please, Ms. Sarga,” the dark guy pleaded.

       A lump of aching emotion formed in her chest. She didn’t want to refuse someone who needed help. She hated doing that.

       A desperate man. A desperate curse. A decade of aging.

       “Baxt, Zor, go to the yard.” She used a hand signal but didn’t think the pups would have obeyed her if they hadn’t spotted the brownie.

       Slowly Amber walked to the gate. It wasn’t padlocked, so the men could have entered, good that they hadn’t.

       “I’m sorry.” She made her voice as soothing and gentle as she could. “My workload is full right now.” A lie, she could use a good client or two—but not this one. “I can recommend—”

       “Please, Ms. Sarga. I must speak with you immediately.”

       “Sir, genealogy is not a business that has emergencies.” She couldn’t help him now—maybe never—but not now, when she might be able to learn more about her magic from the brownies and how to use it better.

       There was a long pause. His voice cracked. “My wife has vanished, along with my year-old son.”

       A shudder passed through her. She wanted to ask what his curse was—but that would be revealing too much.

       “I’m sorry.” She forced the words from her throat.

       The man jerked hard on the gate and she stepped back.

       “Conrad, take it easy.” The blond guy put his hand on the dark one’s shoulder.

       “Conrad?” asked Amber, then felt a surge of anger at herself. Don’t ask names. Don’t get involved. Her gift didn’t age only her. And she’d given up her magic as too dangerous months ago, gotten the puppies to ensure she wouldn’t waver.

       The blond man weighed her with a hard stare.

       Words tumbled from Conrad. “I’m Conrad Tyne-Cymbler. My curse has already happened. I’m worried for my son.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I don’t want him to grow up without a father like I did.”

       She flinched at the pain in Conrad’s voice. “I’m sor—”

       “Please help me. You’re a genealogist. I have a family tree. I can hire you to work on that as well. I’ll pay you whatever.”

       “I can’t find your son—”

       “I have private investigators,” Conrad said at the same time the blond man said, “We’re working that situation.”

       Conrad continued, “I’m desperate. Please help me.”

       Amber blinked again, this time against stupidly stinging eyes. She couldn’t refuse a direct and desperate request for help. At least she could listen, maybe trace the original curse so the guy could break it himself. That could happen. Maybe.

       “All right.” Her voice was thick, dammit! She didn’t want the man to know how weak she was.

       “Can we come in?”

       She said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you have your family tree?”

       “I…uh…no.”

       She looked at the blond, who had angled his body as if to protect his friend from her. “Do you?”

       He snorted. “No.”

       She widened her hands. “I need to prepare. Come back tomorrow.”