her minor magic came quicker now?
She knew, then, that she’d be able to include a story. Darkness had swirled around her and she’d observed a scene in the Smarts’ past. A wonderful, hopeful scene. Cissy’s forebears had been part of the underground railroad and helped slaves escape. A couple of hours later, Amber had found documentation of the event from several stories of ex-slaves compiled after the Civil War.
Smiling, Amber rolled up the chart and the report and put them in a tube and attached the proper postage. Before she left the room, her gaze was drawn to the tube that Conrad had given her.
No, it should wait for another day. Or at least after chocolate pie.
At the bottom of the stairs Tiro stood, scowling and with his arms crossed. For an instant he looked like an odd garden statue and she had to choke back a laugh.
“I’m ready for my pie,” he grumbled. He glanced at the mantel clock in the living room. “It’s almost tea time.”
“Chocolate pie takes twenty minutes to make at the most.” She had some frozen crusts.
He grunted. Amber shrugged and headed into the kitchen.
Time with the other brownies mellowed Tiro slightly. He was downright gleeful when he learned another brownie at Jenni’s place was indentured to a cat. And Tiro was pleased to be asked to help with Pred’s excavation projects.
Pred finished his piece quickly and said, “I will extend the tunnel from the common meeting area under the center of the cul-de-sac to your basement.” He glanced at Tiro. “You can help.”
Tiro’s eyes gleamed. “Digging!”
“See what you miss when you live by yourself?” Hartha said.
Pred tilted his head. “Open the tunnel from Jenni’s basement to yours. Put in a door.”
Amber stared, thought of the sunroom that had appeared nearly overnight on the back of Jenni’s house. “Where’s Jenni? She’s been gone a month.”
Jenni’s brownies appeared unhappy, even with rings of chocolate around their mouths and on their lips. “Jindesfarne is on a dangerous mission,” Pred said.
Hartha looked toward the south, where the street of the cul-de-sac led to other human byways. “Change is coming, for sure.” Her thin shoulders shivered. She stared at Tiro. “And sometimes it isn’t good. Mystic Circle is a special place. And great evil Dark ones know of it.” She frowned at Tiro. “Now we have this brownieman here, and someday he will bring Cumulustre. That is not something to anticipate, either.”
“What’s a Dark one?” asked Amber.
“Pure evil with power you can’t imagine. Only four remain,” Tiro said. “Of course this place would draw them. We’ll run if we need to.”
Amber didn’t think he meant her. Sounded like she might be sacrificed one way or the other.
Chapter 7
RAFE AWOKE WHEN the light changed, the last yellow slant of the sun angling from the windows. Sitting up, he groaned. Damn, he felt like an old man, stiff and sore. But the short sleep had cleared his mind. He knew what he needed to do. He was going back to the business district near Mystic Circle and find that dead crow. Maybe then he’d get a clue about what was going on.
Ignoring his aches and pains, Rafe headed into the diminishing day. Once he was in the car, the purring motor and the sweet vibration soothed him. It was a short drive to the place where he fell. He had a good geographic sense and was sure he could find one bird corpse.
The street had many more cars parked along it than before. He found a spot near where he had fallen and began checking the street and curb. Absolutely no feathers. An odd porous-looking hollow stick of grayish-white caught his eye. Hunkering down, he picked it up. It was light and felt…slimy. There hadn’t been snow in Denver for days, and nothing else was damp.
He looked closer at his prize and the back of his throat coated as a nasty scent rose from it. Definitely a bone. But clean. Like something had eaten whatever the bone belonged to. Standing, his gaze ran along the gutter and bumped at another gray bone. This looked roundish…with, maybe, a tooth?
Again he squatted. This time he didn’t touch the thing, didn’t even want to nudge it with his foot. God knows what crap it would leave on his shoe. He found a stick and stirred at the mess of old leaves and gravel and a shoddy leather patch.
For an instant he thought he saw a skull. And not a regular bird skull. Something out of his childhood playtime when he had dinosaur action figures. He shook his head. No, of course not. He looked closer. He’d been wrong. Now it looked birdlike. He poked it with a stick and the whole damn thing fell into dust. Must have been there a long time. Not just today.
Then there was a last shaft of light through purple velvet clouds and he glanced up to see a bloody sun. He dropped the stick.
The whole day had unsettled him. His head ached. He must have banged it harder than he’d thought.
He damn well wanted a drink, and O’Hearn’s would be the place to get it.
Green paper shamrocks decorated the pub’s windows, reminding Rafe that St. Pat’s holiday was soon. Walking through the canvas-and-plastic outdoor porch toward the door, he opened it to the smell of good pub food and excellent beer.
The long room was floored in dark wood, with cushy-sided booths all along the walls. Since it was a little early for the office-job slaves, he had a pick of tables and seated himself in the corner. He ordered chips and salsa and the best imported beer they had and desultorily watched the TV over the bar, where silent talking heads were imposed in front of a basketball game.
Damn Conrad for getting him into this. God-awful strange stuff had been happening to him all damn day.
A tall man with gleaming silver hair, wearing a long, caped-shoulder trench coat that swirled around him, strode up to Rafe and slipped into the opposite seat. Rafe eyed him but wasn’t inclined to protest. There was something about that man…
The dude was…well, not pretty, ’cuz he was masculine enough… Aw, too handsome. But he carried the same brand of beer Rafe was drinking. Stretching out long legs covered with smooth, dark brown leather, the man looked toward the door, didn’t meet Rafe’s eyes. It seemed more like he was being courteous than cowardly. Rafe guessed it was the way he moved—like a guy who could take care of himself and wipe the floor with you.
Someone turned the TV volume up and sports stats spewed from it, drowning out all other sound. The man said clearly, “So, Rafael Barakiel Davail, how would you like to learn how to live past your thirty-third birthday?”
Rafe choked on his beer. Spewed. Oh, that was couth. Worse, his bottle fell from his limp fingers and hit the table and tipped over, chugging out beer. Liquid went on his hands and the table and his pants and dripped onto the floor. He stared at the gathering puddle, not wanting to look at the guy. Maybe he wasn’t really there. Maybe this was all a hallucination.
Despite himself, his gaze slid to the man’s long, elegant fingers. He moved his forefinger in an arc of no more than a half inch. The pungent scent of spilled beer vanished. So did the amber liquid Rafe had been looking at. So did the stickiness on his fingers, the dampness on his knee. The wooden table shone as if another layer of poly had just been added, and two full glasses of beer with light froth stood on the table.
“I prefer draught porter, don’t you?” the man asked.
Rafe just closed his eyes and thunked back into the corner.
“Rough day?” asked the guy.
“Somehow I think you know,” Rafe said. He cracked his eyelids and saw a concerned expression on the man’s face. And ears as pointed as a movie elf’s.
Damn. It. To. Hell.
Rafe looked