back on.
“Just so you know, I don’t want to be doing this.”
“I never would have guessed,” she said.
One side of his mouth lifted. “Pretty evident, huh?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, shook his head. “I thought my headache would get better here. Doesn’t seem to be happening.”
“Just a minute,” she said. He didn’t look up as she stood.
She sauntered back to the bookcase. “What are you doing here, and why are you bothering Mr. Davail?”
“I am bothering no one. He can feel magic, but he doesn’t believe, so he can’t see me. Can be irritating.”
“I’m sure you can tamp down your magic and be a little less intrusive and odd. It will be so much easier to talk to him if you aren’t bothering him.”
“You’re the one who’s talking to a bookcase,” Tiro said.
Amber gritted her teeth, glanced over her shoulder and saw Rafe staring at her. Had he heard her? The espresso machine had been going and she’d kept her voice down. Still…
Amber glared up at Tiro. “I’m only a duty to you. Go sulk in your room and leave us be.”
“He is attracted to you.”
“I’m an attractive woman.”
“And he is handsome for a human, this I know.” Tiro began shaking his head slowly.
“I don’t want to hear anything more about how I’ll die. Just go.”
“I will keep my magic close to me.” Tiro said. “Not let it spread through the room.” He crossed his arms. It seemed his only concession. Amber wondered if it were a good or bad sign that he was interested in Rafe Davail. But in the next few seconds, she did feel a thinning of magic in the atmosphere. Well, she had a business to run. She spun on her heel, quickly enough to see that Rafe’s gaze had been aimed at her butt.
Too bad he had a death curse, she really would have liked to spend some time with him. She plucked down one of the notebooks with blank paper that was kept for the patrons and walked back to the table, keeping her smile easy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any supplies with me.” She reached into her purse and a pen slipped into her fingers. The way her hand felt, that was another minor magic. Maybe hanging around the brownies was increasing that, too. She hoped so.
She opened the tube and pulled out rolled charts. One was older, the other smelled like it had been copied at a shop with a blueprint machine that morning. She glanced at that one and saw the Davail line. Once again several entries jumped out at her…all men who had died before they were thirty-three. She glanced at Rafe as she set it aside—he was in the last months of his thirty-second year.
Then she unrolled the Cymbler family tree. The last entry, “Douglas Dimir Tyne-Cymbler,” was printed in ballpoint ink. No doubt Conrad’s addition. She let that end of the paper curl up as she scrolled to the beginning of the large sheet and the thirteenth century. She couldn’t tell just by looking whether Conrad’s curse had been in effect then. Surely if it had happened later, there would have been documentation.
“Do you know anything about the Cymbler curse?” she asked absently.
There was a creak as Rafe tilted his chair back on two legs. His gaze met hers over his cup as he sipped. “I vaguely recall Conrad’s ramblings after he met his father. We were in college…roommates. You and Conrad. Puzzle solvers.” Rafe shrugged, this time a regular-type shrug. “I’m more into action.”
“Sports.” She recalled some of the pics online she’d seen, he wasn’t sitting in one of them.
“That’s right.”
Amber kept her hands flat on the roll. “Mr. Davail, just what do you expect of me?”
His chair came down with a clunk. “I expect you to research Conrad’s family tree. Check out whether there really is some sort of…bad luck.”
“Does he have any histories, stories, notes?” Amber asked.
“Not that I know of. He would have brought them to you if he had them.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
Rafe waved a hand. “As far back as it takes, as long as it takes.” He leaned forward, blue gaze steady. “Charge your usual rates and keep track of your time and expenses.”
Anger surged through her. “You don’t seem to get it, Mr. Davail. I didn’t contact Mr. Tyne-Cymbler or you. I did not come to your home and ask for your help. I have absolutely no intention of taking monetary advantage of Mr. Tyne-Cymbler in the state he’s in.” She drew in a breath, checked around, but no one was paying much attention to them. Keeping her voice low, she continued. “I’m not promising to break his curse. I’m contracting to do genealogy for him. That’s all.”
“He said something about special stories.”
Amber glanced away. How could she have known that those little bits of magic she did during her historical work would lead to such problems? “Now and then I can…find certain family moments or two that my clients are unaware of. I include them in my reports.”
“Psychic?” Rafe asked, his voice laden with disbelief.
She blinked but didn’t meet his gaze, shrugged herself. “Extrapolation.” Now she looked him in the eyes. “But there’s usually documentation for the stories.” She thought that’s how her minor magic functioned, only showing what was recorded somewhere. She just had to find it.
Rafe reached into his jacket pocket. “Do you need a retainer?”
“No.”
“I want you to work on this as hard as you can.”
“I do have other clients.”
He nodded. “All right, I agree.”
“What?”
“Bump up your price until you can work only for us.”
“No. I have other clients.”
“Finish ’em up first, then give us all your time.”
She stared at him. “You don’t believe in curses.”
“Of course not.”
She glanced up to Tiro. He whistled and Rafe flinched. Rafe was magic whether he knew it or not, whether he believed or not. “But somewhere inside you, you don’t think that Conrad will find his wife and child, do you? That’s why you’re authorizing such a push on my part.”
“Just do it.” He narrowed his eyes. “And let’s hope one of your stories you find during your little psychic episodes is the event that Conrad wants to hear about.”
