Enchanted Again. Robin D. Owens

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ pale as the white shirt he wore with his gray suit. “You can’t believe a guy you saw once,” Rafe said.

       “The guy was my father, and he was right. We Cymblers love and lose. Lose our sons, too. Soon after we find the kid again as an adult, we die. Has been happening for generations. He left a family tree. You saw it.”

       “You shouldn’t believe an alcoholic.”

       “That’s brutal, Rafe. You’re just in denial of your own damn deadly curse.”

       Rafe started the car. “I’ll get you home and we’ll check in with the private investigative firm I hired to keep track of your wife.”

       “Wait. Rafe, just wait a damn minute.” Conrad sounded drunk. He hadn’t been sleeping well, Rafe knew that, and Conrad was probably hanging on to the last shred of his control. Hell, the man was desperate.

       Rafe flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Nice machine. He preferred Italian, but this electric vehicle was excellent. “What?”

       Conrad said, “I’m thinking we need to try more unusual avenues to get rid of our curses.”

       “What are you talking about?” The SUV was finally gone. Rafe reversed.

       “I’ve got the name of a curse breaker.” Conrad tapped the nav and a map showed up. “That’s the way.”

       Snorting before he grimaced, Rafe said, “This is stupid.”

       “Humor me.” Conrad’s voice cracked.

       “Yeah, right.” Rafe waited a beat. Conrad said nothing more. Rafe could understand pride. “Okay.” He scrolled the map so he could see the whole thing, then back at the route. Rafe hadn’t been in Denver for a while, but he was good with maps.

       A lot of cops were in the vicinity and they eyed the hot red Tesla roadster. Rafe drove carefully to the street.

       Before he could say anything, his cell rang with a familiar tone. “That’s my detective. Pocket of my jacket. Put it on speaker.” A cop was tailing him, watching. He’d mind his manners.

       Conrad snatched the phone, thumbed it on. Through the static, Rafe heard, “Davail, this is Herrera at Ace Investigations.”

       “Yeah?” Rafe asked.

       “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 СКАЧАТЬ