LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

       This magic she’d discovered by accident. The gypsy journal made no mention of it.

       She placed her hands on the middle of the family tree. The connection wasn’t as good because the paper wasn’t hers, nor was the work. But her hands stuck, so there was something there. Many scenes, perhaps. And, maybe, far back in the past, the vital scene.

       Amber drew in a long breath.

       Pink-purple sparks rose from her fingers to circle her head. As she fell through the well of blue-black, her ears rang. Her magic adjusted first to any change of language. The fall was short, but the abrupt stop was hard.

       Not far back, then, a few decades. Amber blinked the dark fog away to settle into the vision.

       The colors of the world had faded as usual to black and white.

       Two men were sitting on a park bench, they both had features in common with Conrad Tyne-Cymbler. Both were wearing sixties clothes, the older man, who was in his late thirties, had on a suit and tie. The younger lounged, arms crossed and legs stretched, in jeans and sneakers and a white sweatshirt, scowling as he drew short puffs on a cigarette he held between thumb and two fingers.

       “Son, I’m sorry we didn’t meet before.”

       “Yeah, right.” He blew out a stream of smoke.

       Amber could hear the conversation clearly, but no other ambient noise.

       The older man shook his head. “I was afraid.”

       The younger laughed, cut off as he saw his father dab at his face with a handkerchief.

       “Afraid I’d die. We have this bad family thing going on. Some say it’s a curse.”

       “Come on, man....” The one in jeans glanced around, saw a bottle and dropped his cigarette precisely

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